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Ananias’ Daughter 


ALICE GARDEN 



Ananias’ Daughter 

BY 

ALICE GARDEN 



Publishers 


DORRANCE Philadelphia 


COPYRIGHT 1923 
DORRANCE A COMPANY Inc 



V t,s *' 


OCT i9 ’23 


Manufactured in the United States of America 


©C1A759462 

| 


Ananias’ Daughter 















ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 

I 

Oh, dear! Now Aunt Annameel had gone and 
made this one too long, just like all the others! 
You see, she always made them exactly like the 
pattern, so that the first season they invariably 
were much too long, while the second year, what 
with shrinking in the wash and Barbara Ann’s 
natural growth, they were sure to be quite as 
much too short. 

Brown calico, too—such a dingy, dunduckety 
brown, with little reddish spots; it would wear, 
Aunt Annameel had said when she brought the 
material home from the Boston store, and besides, 
it wouldn’t show the dirt. Barbara would have 
liked to argue that point. If the dirt were there, 
why shouldn’t it show? But she held her peace, 
because one didn’t argue with Aunt Annameel; 
and hoped against the weight of past experi¬ 
ence that the pattern might just happen to be the 
right length this time! 

And now the dress was made; straight up-and- 
down, without sign of tuck or ruffle, and quite in¬ 
nocent of starch. Barbara, surveying its plain¬ 
ness, sighed deeply. She adored starch and 
ruffles. With all her might she longed to be 
garbed like the two little girls who had paused 
outside the gate in the hedgp and now stood star¬ 
ing in at her, wide-eyed, exactly as they might 

7 


8 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


have gazed at some strange and fearsome beast 
m its cage at the zoo. 

“Ss-ssh! Lookit, Bessie! D’you know what 
she is? Idol She’s a Poornorfum!” This from 
one of the little girls outside, in an awed whisper 
that easily reached the ears of the little girl in¬ 
side, and indeed might have done so had much 
more than the width of the mangy hedge sepa¬ 
rated them. 

“Is she, honest?” 

* ‘ Uh-huh. ’ ’ 

“How kin yuh tell?” 

“ ’Cause she ain’t got nice pretty clo’es like us. 
’Nanyhow my Momma said she was. So!” 

That, of course, settled it; till, as an after¬ 
thought, the one in blue: ‘ i Say, Stella, now look¬ 
it! What is a poor—a poornuff— you know. That 
thing you said.” 

The one in pink turned up a scornful nose. 
“Huh! If I didn’t know what a poornorfum is! 
It’s a—now—poornorfum that lives in a norfum- 
silun!” she emerged triumphant. 

“What’s a norf umsilun ? ” demanded Bessie. 

“Why, Bessie Paige! You’ve seen ’em lotsa 
times! They go out walking ev’ry day, two by 
two, and Sisters in front and behind.” 

“Whose sisters?” 

“Oh, my goodness! Not anybody’s sisters, 
silly! Just church Sisters, I mean. You know— 
Cafflieks.” 

“ Oh! ” Then, dubiously: ‘ ‘ But, Stella, what’s 
she in there for, if she lives in a nor—norfum- 
silun?” 

“I dunno.” Gloom descended. “ ’Nless’n 
maybe’’—brightening—“maybe she was bad or 
sumpthin’ and they made her go an’ stay in that 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


9 


ole house in there. They’s two awful ole witches 
lives in that house, too. They eat little girls—my 
brother said so! ” 

“Oh—oooh!” Smothered squeals, a flirt and 
scurry of ruffled skirts both pink and blue; swift 
scampering of well-shod little feet; and through 
the hedge a very wistful “poornorfum” gazed 
after the two flying figures, veritable birds of 
paradise in her childish eyes. 

Again Barbara looked down at the queer little 
frock she had just donned, as per Aunt Anna- 
meel’s instructions, after her Saturday afternoon 
bath. If it had mortified her before, now it was 
abhorrent beyond words. It must be, she decided, 
one of those “bommanashuns unto the Lord,” 
that Aunt Annameel always called the things she 
didn’t like; like the Hendrickson boy and Mis’ 
Joneses old red rooster. 

And not alone her dress. Everything about her 
was so different, and so queer! Her hair, for in¬ 
stance. Barbara knew that it, too, was utterly 
and entirely wrong. Little girls of that day—it 
was the summer of 1886 —wore long curls to the 
waist; or if nature, artfully aided by strips of rag 
and a wet hair brush, still refused to bow to 
fashion’s mandate, yet all was not lost. Long 
yellow, brown or auburn strands, chillingly damp, 
could be braided tightly at night, and in the morn¬ 
ing combed out to almost unbelievable crimpiness. 
Barbara’s hair was very dark and very straight, 
and she wore it cut off short at her neck, much as 
children wear their hair nowadays; but how 
dreadfully dowdy it did look—in 1886 ! 

There were other matters, too, concerning 
sashes and hair ribbons and a truly gold ring 
with a blue stone in it, like the one Grandma 


10 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Ferriss had when she was a little girl no bigger 
than Barbara Ann. (She had let Barbara try it 
on one day, and it was exactly the right size!)— 
And petticoats that stuck out all around and had 
ruffles on them and lace on the edge of the ruffles. 
And—oh, such lots of things! 

So that altogether it was a pensive and slightly 
melancholy little person who turned at last and 
clumped toward the house. Yes, clumped. Bar¬ 
bara never skipped nor scampered nor pattered. 
She didn’t know how to skip, and her shoes were 
never just right for scampering and pattering. 
When new they clumped because they were too 
large, and when old they stumped because they 
were too small. This pair clumped wearisomely; 
a fault somewhat mitigated, to be sure, by their 
delightful shiningness, and that delicious smell 
new shoes always have. You know! 

So Barbara clumped over the uneven bricks to 
the shabby old house, set far back from the street 
and half concealed by a riot of shrubbery. Up the 
steps and across the narrow sloping porch, the 
weatherbeaten door creaking at her touch, the 
little girl made for the “ sett’n-room,” sure of 
finding Grandma Ferriss in her low chair by the 
window—almost the only window in the house 
which was not kept closely shuttered day and 
night. You see, Mis’ Cap’n Sickles, who lived 
next door, did nothing else from morning till 
night ’cept peek out from behind her curtains to 
see what was going on over to the Ferrisses. 
That is what Aunt Annameel believed, and had 
finally persuaded Grandma Ferriss, though 
Grandma and the Cap’n’s wife had been very 
good friends indeed, once upon a time. And that 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


11 


ole Mis’ Black, on the other side, wasn’t much 
better, it seemed. 

But this one window, facing the street, was 
Grandma’s conning tower. From it, herself un¬ 
seen, she observed the comings and goings of the 
little world about her, in which she had no part. 
Here she would sit by the hour in almost unbroken 
silence, save for occasional comment uttered half 
to herself, half to Aunt Annameel. “That looks 
some like Em D’remus, ridin’ out with her beau. 
. . . I heard tell they was goin’ to get married 

this summer. ... I guess the Joneses have 
got company . . . the shades is up in the 
parlor, looks ’s if. . . . Laws sakes! That 
must be Mis’ Parkinses new hired girl, all diked 
out in a green dress ... ” And Aunt Anna¬ 

meel, clucking heavily back and forth in the old 
Boston rocker, would respond “Do tell!” or “I 
wan ’ to know! ” at appropriate intervals; or may¬ 
be only grunted. 

Today, however, Grandma w r as alone, which 
suited Barbara very well; it was so much harder 
to ask questions with Aunt Annameel about. Aunt 
Annameel had a way of thumping one’s head with 
her thimble, or if she didn’t happen to be wearing 
a thimble, with her knuckle, which was nearly as 
hard, as a reminder that little girls should be 
seen and not heard. And Barbara did want to 
know about witches, and whether they really ate 
little girls, and why those delectable beings in 
ruffles and ribbons had thought Grandma and 
Aunt Annameel were witches, as they had said. 
Obviously Aunt Annameel couldn’t be one—she 
was much too fat. Not jolly-and-rosy fat like 
Mrs. Fromholz, the baker’s wife, but thick-and- 
heavy fat, from the habit of taking her exercise 


12 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


in the Boston rocker almost exclusively. And as 
for Grandma Ferriss, she certainly had none of 
the rowdy characteristics of such witches as Bar¬ 
bara had met, pictorially. Although her eyes 
were black and her face thin and a trifle high 
nosed, her expression was far less ribald; and 
there is no doubt that she would have considered 
straddling a broomstick an unseemly posture, and 
most unladylike. 

Grandma Ferriss was an erect, rather severe 
little old woman, who in her youth had been 
taught to be seen and not heard, and who had not 
departed from it now that she was old. It was 
told that when her elder sister, Aunt Lavinia 
Beebe, now long dead, used to visit her in years 
gone by, the two would sit rocking happily in their 
little old splint-bottomed chairs, neither speaking 
a word for hours at a time, but each declaring 
with gentle fervor, at Aunt Lavinia’s departure, 
that they had had such a good visit! She was 
silent almost to grimness with strangers, and 
rarely demonstrative even toward the little grand¬ 
daughter whom she really loved very much, but 
Barbara was quick to divine her affection, and it 
was to her she took the small problems of her 
usually uneventful days. 

It might be that old Mrs. Ferriss had ideas of 
her own as to the proper upbringing of little Bar¬ 
bara Ann, ideas which she hesitated to set before 
her daughter, perhaps feeling as Barbara did 
that one couldn’t argue with Aunt Annameel. 
Arguing with Aunt Annameel was something like 
trying to pick up a robust three-year-old who has 
discovered the trick of making himself limp all 
over. So Grandma didn’t often assert herself, 
even in Barbara’s behalf; not that she saw any 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


IS 


real need of it, of course. To Grandma Ferriss a 
little girl who had enough to eat and whose clothes 
were clean and whole “did well enough,” she 
s’posed. In her seclusion she knew naught of 
fluffy locks and billowing petticoats, and play¬ 
mates and such. Her own little-girlhood lay so 
far, far back in the dim past; perhaps it hadn’t 
been a very gay one either, in those long-ago days 
up in York State, when the country was new, and 
young and old together must shoulder the burdens 
of the pioneer. Perhaps Grandma had only for¬ 
gotten. 

The old lady looked grimmer than ever at Bar¬ 
bara’s tale of the loud-whispered chatter beyond 
the hedge. She wanted very much to do some¬ 
thing about it, but what or how, she hadn’t the 
faintest notion. However, she was able to dispose 
of the witch question, and did so to Barbara’s 
complete satisfaction—and relief. It would have 
been unpleasant, and perhaps awkward, to have 
to go on living with a witch family of cannibalistic 
tastes! And she ran out again contentedly, to 
her play; but in the “middle garden” this time, 
far from the hedge and the box-bordered paths 
of the “front dooryard.” 

Now this big neglected yard of old Mrs. Fer¬ 
riss’ was really a very wonderful place indeed, 
or had been in the happy long ago when Grand¬ 
father Ferriss was alive, and kept the shrubbery 
trimmed and the grass smooth, the flower beds 
weedless and the fences in repair. To little Bar¬ 
bara Ann it was fairyland even now. Like all 
Gaul, which was to cause her considerable vexa¬ 
tion in later years, it was divided into three parts. 
The first, that part immediately surrounding the 
house, was known as the “dooryard,” and there 


14 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


had been a formal garden of old-fashioned flowers 
in front, and in back a grassy place where Grand¬ 
ma Ferriss— 44 young Mrs. Ferriss” then—-used 
to spread her snowy linen to dry, the while it 
bleached to still more dazzling whiteness. Behind 
this, a little gate in the low picket fence, now 
weatherworn and overgrown with vines, opened 
into the 44 middle garden,” where a long arbor 
led to a summer-house at the end of its 
vista of green. The grape vines, once the pride 
of Grandfather Ferriss’ heart, had 44 petered out” 
through neglect, until now but a few straggly 
bunches ripened annually, a travesty on the lus¬ 
cious Concords and Niagaras that should have 
been. And sour! Ugh! Barbara knew! Still, 
while very small and green they did quite well for 
peas or beans, in Barbara’s scheme of household 
economy; or grown larger, they would serve as 
onions or lemons or plums, according to the need. 

The summer-house, formerly a vine-shaded re¬ 
treat, sweet with honeysuckle, gorgeous with the 
purple of clematis and the orange red of the trum¬ 
pet vine, was now so overrun with the rank 
growth of two score years that little Barbara Ann 
was obliged to push her way through the tangle 
of leaves and branches that choked the entrance; 
but once inside—what a fairy bower for a little 
girl of five, going on six! So thick was the mass 
of vines that only an occasional sunbeam pene¬ 
trated the dusky interior. The thick green w^alls 
filtered the light of the blazing midsummer day to 
a dim, cool twilight. Vivid moss spread a carpet 
of Oriental softness upon the brick flooring, and 
birds nested unafraid amid the dense foliage over¬ 
head. Here it was that Barbara brought her 
treasures when all the other dear delights of the 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


15 


old neglected garden palled. Here she played for 
hours with her beloved Daisy Rose of the battered 
wooden head and painted complexion showing the 
ravages of a too strenuous existence; with black 
Dinah, made of yarn, with very red worsted lips; 
and with the bleached clam shells, the colored 
pebbles, and the few odds and ends of broken 
table-ware which added glamour to her little 
world of make-believe. 

In the “middle garden/’ too, were a stunted 
and discouraged peach tree; berry bushes, and 
currants, black, white and crimson. In earlier 
years these had furnished Grandma’s pantry with 
preserves and “jell,” the neatly labeled jars 
standing in serried ranks on the upper shelves; 
now the little fruit that ripened provided sundry 
tea parties for Barbara Ann and her family of 
dolls. And here, close beside the arbor, was 
Grandma’s bed of herbs; Barbara knew them all 
and loved their spicy fragrance—spearmint and 
sage, anise and coriander, bergamot and summer 
savory, the whitey-green catnip and the umbrella¬ 
like clusters of caraway seed. 

The farther enclosure, reached by another sag¬ 
ging gate in a fence more rickety than the first, 
had been a kitchen garden, and was still so desig¬ 
nated, though long since abandoned to weeds and 
underbrush. Even here Barbara found material 
for her play: the pods of the milkweed, stuffed 
with glistening floss; big rough mullein leaves for 
doll blankets; feathery grasses and tall spikes of 
plantain-weed, all helped beguile the long sum¬ 
mer afternoons and sometimes made her quite 
forget that she was a “poornorfum,” and not like 
anybody else in the whole wide world. 

What strange fancies wove themselves in Bar- 


16 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


bara’s busy little brain as she played about this 
threefold paradise, none might know. So long as 
she played quietly and didn’t get herself dirty, 
no one inquired as to her games; her mental pro¬ 
cesses had about as much interest for her elders 
as those of Daisy Rose herself. And having 
learned that any notice from Aunt Annameel was 
quite likely to be of an unfavorable nature, Bar¬ 
bara played quietly and didn’t get herself dirty. 
Well, not so very dirty, anyway! 

Barbara couldn’t have explained to Aunt Anna¬ 
meel—oh, dear, no! nor even to Grandma, about 
the gates—the gates between the gardens. How, 
when you opened a gate and passed through, it 
was like beginning another day, and the gate clos¬ 
ing behind you shut out yesterday as if it had 
never been. Though Barbara had this advantage, 
that she could open the gate of yesterday and go 
back in, if she wanted to! The quaint fancy had 
grown from her habit of playing all day in one 
garden, not running from one to another; till she 
came to think of the one she was in as “ today’s 
garden,” and the one she had played in the pre¬ 
vious day as ‘‘ yesterday’s garden.” She used to 
wonder a little about tomorrow’s garden, and how 
it was that she never could get around to play in 
it; for of course when tomorrow came it wasn’t 
tomorrow any more, but today, and its garden 
was today’s garden, the same as usual! 

“Tomorrow,” to Barbara Ann, was ever a far 
country, tantalizingly remote, separated from to¬ 
day by a broad black river of sleep and by a vast 
mountain range of burdensome tasks, over which 
she must toil each day. Not till afternoon did 
Barbara’s play-day begin; for mornings rain or 
shine, summer and winter, there was no play for 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


17 


her until her tasks were done. There were a-b-c’s 
to be learned, and then a-b, ab, and b-a, ba, b-e, be, 
b-o, bo—a dribble of meaningless sounds that 
brought to the little brain only bewilderment, but 
which must have been the right w T ay to learn to 
read, because Aunt Annameel had learned that 
way, and she read a very great deal, mostly in a 
large black book without any pictures in it. 

After the reading lesson Barbara must do her 
“stent” with her needle. She was making a 
patchwork quilt, setting the squares of dull calico 
together with “over ‘n’ over” stitches, none too 
even but very, very painstaking; indeed, at her 
present rate of progress the quilt would be 
finished, presumably, by the time Barbara was 
ninety! And she must learn a verse of Scripture 
for the next Sunday. Oh, yes, Aunt Annameel 
was very strict about that; but the verses she 
selected, being suited to her adult intelligence 
rather than to Barbara’s childish mind, were a 
source of wonder and perplexity to the little girl, 
and did not materially aid in her comprehension 
of Holy Writ. For instance, this morning it had 
been “And God looked upon the earth and behold 
it was krupt for all flesh had krupted His way 
upon the earth Jenny’s is six and twelve.” Bar¬ 
bara wanted to ask about “krupted,” but had 
found that Aunt Annameel’s explanations were 
apt to be rather more puzzling than the thing she 
explained, and Barbara ’s last state would be more 
befogged than her first. Besides, it would take 
time, precious time that might be used to better 
advantage, she thought; say in picking daisies to 
make a lemon m ’rang pie, like the one Grandma 
made once w T hen Uncle Ben came on a visit. You 
know, you filled a little dish with the finely crum- 


18 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


bled yellow centers; that was the lemon part, and 
yon heaped the white petals on top, and that was 
the m’rang. That is the way Barbara made hers, 
though of course. Grandma had used really 
lemons an’ everything. 

Sundays, though, were the worst. To be sure 
there w y ere no lessons nor sewing, but the six 
verses for the week must be repeated correctly, 
and then Barbara Ann had to sit quite still while 
Aunt Annameel read from the big black book; 
after which they all got up and turned around 
and knelt down facing their chairs, while Aunt 
Annameel prayed a very long prayer. It seemed 
to Barbara’s aching knees that the carpet of good 
“body Brussels” didn’t really mitigate the hard¬ 
ness of the boards beneath to any great extent, 
though it had fascinating red roses on it, not much 
larger than Barbara’s head. In imagination the 
little girl picked many a Brobdingnagian bouquet 
from that carpet, while Aunt Annameel’s heavy 
voice droned on and on— 

Aunt Annameel always had a great deal to say 
to the Lord, apparently; and having begun with 
“Lord, Thou knowest all things—” she would go 
on to tell Him ever so many things which it 
seemed He didn’t know after all—or maybe He 
had forgotten; it w r as all very puzzling. Barbara 
liked much better the prayer Grandma had taught 
her, beginning “Our Father,” though she didn’t 
really understand much of that except the part 
about giving us our daily bread; but someway 
when she was saying it, as she did every night— 
well, '■most every night —she didn’t have that 
scared feeling, as she usually did when she 
thought about God. God, you know, punished you 
frightfully if ever you did the least wrong; and 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


19 


you couldn’t hope to hide it from Him, either. 
No, indeed! He was sure to find it out somehow, 
and always He told Aunt Annameel, and she 
spanked you. 

Poor little Barbara Ann! It was long years ere 
she ceased entirely to regard her Creator as a sort 
of super-being (with a beard), solely devoted to 
wrath and vengeance and to sending down rain 
when one wanted to play in the garden. Long, 
too, ere she quite lost the conviction that He came 
down from Heaven each Sunday morning and 
stood behind Aunt Annameel’s big rocking chair, 
invisible to Barbara because of her blackness of 
heart, but seen of Aunt Annameel—for that is 
where Aunt Annameel always looked when she 
prayed. You can see that Barbara was well 
grounded in the doctrine of a “personal” Deity! 
As to the twin doctrine of a personal Devil, that 
had been clinched to a certainty long ago, by 
means of a horridly fascinating book with which 
she was wont to while away the tedium of Sunday 
afternoons. The book was “II Inferno,” by one 
Dante, its illustrations inspired by the religious 
beliefs of the early nineteenth century—strong 
meat, one might think, for a little girl of five, 
going on six! 

The one thing Barbara really liked about Sun¬ 
day was the dinner. They had chicken almost 
always, and mashed potato and gravy and currant 
jelly and celery and pudding, in festive contrast 
to their week-day menus, which were apt to be 
sketchy affairs running largely to crackers. For¬ 
tunately Aunt Annameel considered it a serious 
infraction of the fourth commandment to do any 
cooking on the Sabbath; so on that day Grandma 
Ferriss betook herself to the kitchen, and there 


20 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


sinned happily among the pots and pans, with the 
avowed purpose of “settin’ down to one good 
meal of vittles, anyhow”; Aunt Annameel par¬ 
taking quite as heartily as the rest, of the whole¬ 
some, appetizing and well-cooked fruit of her 
mother’s iniquity! 

But dinner, even such a dinner as Grandma’s 
skill might achieve, could be eaten but once; and 
then Sunday afternoon stretched its dreary length 
over the hours till bedtime. Play was banned, yet 
with compensations; for sometimes, when in par¬ 
ticularly genial mood, Aunt Annameel would draw 
pictures on the little girl’s slate. Not frivolous 
things like Cinderella’s coach or Puss in Boots or 
Little Miss Muffet. Mercy, no! Aunt Anna¬ 
meel ’s drawings always aimed to inculcate a 
moral lesson. Her favorite represented a poorly 
clad child toiling up a precipitous hillside toward 
a gate in the clouds. It was a regular gate with 
pickets, and had rays all around it like the sun 
‘ 4 drawing water.” Below would be shown a 
gentle declivity down which strolled a well- 
dressed child with curls, seeming quite unaware 
that Satan—horns, hoofs, tail and pitchfork all 
complete, and grinning most amiably—awaited 
her coming in the extreme lower left-hand corner 
of the slate! 

And occasionally, when Barbara had recited 
her verses nicely, she might go into the long, dim 
parlor and look at the wax fruit and flowers in 
their deep, glassed-in frames; at the wreath, every 
bit made of hair; and at the wonderful picture, 
hand painted in 4 ‘light and dark black,” of a stu¬ 
pendous mountain flattened against the sky, while 
’neath the weeping willow in the foreground a 
lady some nine feet tall, with dreadfully mussed- 


ANANIAS , DAUGHTER 


21 


up hair, clung to an inebriated tombstone: all 
these things being the work of Aunt Annameel in 
her youth. 

What other furnishings the room contained 
Barbara could only guess, so heaped and cluttered 
was it with old newspapers and periodicals. In 
twenty years, at least, none had been destroyed, 
till the accumulation had overflowed attic and 
storeroom and a clothes-press or two; and now 
here, besides being piled high on tables, chairs 
and sofa, they were stacked upon the floor along 
each wall to a level with Barbara Ann’s little 
inquisitive nose, while in one corner rose a huge 
mound half-way to the ceiling. Truly the parlor 
was a fascinating place, albeit not too cheerful. 

The family did not go to church. Grandma 
Ferriss’ age and her habit of seclusion combined 
to keep her at home, while Aunt Annameel had de¬ 
cided that the orthodox Presbyterianism in which 
she had been reared did not offer suitable nourish¬ 
ment for her peculiar spiritual needs, and had 
allied herself with a small band of fervid worship¬ 
pers calling themselves The Children of Light. 
They met Sunday afternoons at “Hepzibah 
House,” the home of two elderly sisters of the 
cult, and sometimes Barbara went with her aunt 
to the meetings. On the whole she found it quite 
exciting, though she did have to sit still, and all 
the people seemed to feel very badly about some¬ 
thing. At first Barbara had thought it might be 
stomach-ache, because they groaned a great deal 
and now and then one would jump right up and 
shout “Glory!” very loud, or “Glory, glory, 
Halleluia!”—sort of happified, the way she felt 
when she had had a stomach-ache, and it had gone 
away again. But then, it didn’t seem likely that 


22 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


they all would have stomach-ache every Sunday, 
so probably it was something else, after all. 

Aunt Annameel did those things at home a 
great deal, too—the groaning, you know, and say¬ 
ing “Lord, Lord!” and “Glory, Halleluia!” 
every little while. But Grandma never did, and 
sometimes when Aunt Annameel said them, 
Grandma would make a funny noise back in her 
nose, something like a horse, Barbara thought, 
and wondered why. 

There is no denying it—Aunt Annameel cer¬ 
tainly was queer. Even her name was queer—you 
may have noticed. Ann Amelia she had been 
christened. All the Ferrisses had names like that, 
good old-fashioned names that you could get your 
teeth into; none of these wishy-washy Minnies 
and Mays, Florries and Nellies and Lotties and 
Carries that abounded in the middle ’80s. 
Grandma’s own name was Sally Ann, and there 
was another daughter who lived “out West” (in 
Ohio!); Lucinda Jane Adams now, wife of the 
Uncle Ben who had been the occasion of the 
lemon m’rang pie. Only because Barbara’s own 
mother was the baby of the family had the sturdy 
“Augusta Sophia” written in the big Bible been 
softened to Sophie. Even so, her name was some¬ 
what of a trial to her and when a wee girl-baby 
came to her and her young husband, and Grandma 
Ferriss claimed the privilege of naming the first 
grandchild, she pleaded weakly for something 
more modern and less—well, Ferrissy —than the 
Susan or Rebecca or Emmeline that her mother at 
first proposed. She contrived to ward off an 
imminent 4 ‘ Keturah, ’ ’ the nightmare of ‘ 1 Philena 
Abigail, ’ ’ and the horrors of Hannah and of Hul- 
dah; but succumbed at last to “Barbara Ann,” as 


ANANIAS* DAUGHTER 


23 


being better than she had any reason to expect. 
Perhaps they might manage to ignore the Ann 
part of it, and Barbara alone really wasn’t so 
bad— 

It was the little girl herself who settled it, with 
her earliest lisping words; her name was Bobby- 
ann! 

Barbara Ann was still a baby when the accident 
occurred which left her orphaned; an accident 
only too common in those days, and somewhat 
less than rare in these, despite our vaunted prog¬ 
ress. David Thair, bringing home his little 
family after a day at Mother Ferriss’ in town, 
had driven upon the railroad track in the path of 
the “Seaboard Limited,” some two hours late. 
A heavy freight, rumbling and clattering away in 
the opposite direction, drowned the noise of the 
approaching express, even as a dense growth of 
underbrush hid it from view— 

When the train crew came to gather up the 
mangled bodies and the splintered wreck of the 
Thairs ’ light carriage, the baby was found lodged 
in a bush beside the track, unharmed beyond a 
few scratches. Whether Spohie Thair, in the one 
frantic moment before she was hurled into eter¬ 
nity, had been able to toss her baby to safety, or 
whether the impact had thrown the light body far 
to one side, can never be known. Baby Barbara, 
none the worse for her experience and too young 
to know aught of the terrible loss she had sus¬ 
tained, was taken in charge by Aunt Annameel 
and the heartbroken grandmother; the former ac¬ 
cepting the responsibility as a none too pleasant 
duty, to be performed nevertheless according to 
the leadings of her conscience, while her mother’s 
attitude was one of nervous terror lest harm be- 


24 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


fall the child—a fear which caused her to. keep 
Barbara closely at home, and found expression in 
constant cautionings. From her first toddling 
steps, whether she walked or ran, jumped or 
climbed or capered, Grandma Ferriss’ sharp 
“T’care! T’care!” rang in her ears; ears for¬ 
tunately rendered dull by the eternal repetition, 
else the little Barbara Ann might well have grown 
still more timid and shrinking than her solitary 
life made inevitable. 

Barbara was neither neglected nor really un- 
happy, yet hers was not the healthily normal 
existence of the little girls she envied outside the 
hedge, walking in pairs with arms entwined, 
chased by little boys in Fauntleroy suits, or run¬ 
ning to meet “Poppa” on his return from work at 
supper time. Most of all she longed for “some¬ 
body to play w T ith,” but Aunt Annameel simply 
would not have a lot of strange brats nosing 
’round, and then rushing off home to tattle every¬ 
thing they saw, and that was all there was to it! 
So Barbara Ann, and Daisy Rose, and old Dinah, 
played by themselves in “today’s garden,” watch¬ 
ing rather wistfully the gay little butterflies in 
starchy white and blue and pink, who ever flitted 
by the gate in the hedge, but never, never entered 


II 


The “ queerness ” of Aunt Annameel was no 
new thing, but it did seem to be growing on her. 
Even Grandma Ferriss and Barbara Ann, accus¬ 
tomed as they were to her eccentricities, could see 
it; and to such acquaintances as still ventured to 
‘‘call on” the two women, the fact had long been 
patent. Nowadays but few came. It is discon¬ 
certing, to say the least, when in the midst of an 
account of Johnny's mumps, or of Lilly Frost's 
wedding, or the split in the Methodist Ladies' 
Aid, to pull up against a blank stare and an in¬ 
quiry as to the state of your soul. “Are you Pre¬ 
pared?'' Aunt Annameel would ask in sepulchral 
tones. Or “These are the Last Days: are you 
going to be caught up with the saints I'' 

“My goodness, I hope not!” ejaculated Cousin 
Mary Lane on one occasion. “I should be scared 
to death!” Cousin Mary was wholly orthodox, 
and took her Bible quite literally; but dear me, 
she was so taken aback! 

As a relation on the Ferriss side, Cousin Mary 
rather made a point of being as friendly as “dear 
Cousin Daniel's” family would let her. Now even 
she had stopped coming. “That Annameel Fer¬ 
riss gives me the creeps!” she had declared in ex¬ 
asperation, after the last visit. “And such a look¬ 
ing place! I don’t see how Cousin Sally Ann 
stands it! And oh, dear, that poor baby of 
Sophie's too; it's a shame! The way she's 

26 


26 ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 

dressed, and always playing by herself, and 
all—” 

It must be confessed that Cousin Mary Lane’s 
italics did small injustice to Aunt Annameel’s 
housekeeping. She never had had any talent or 
liking for it, and until the marriage of her sister 
Lucinda Jane some fifteen years before, had con¬ 
cerned herself not at all with the affairs of 
the house. But with Lucinda’s going, her 
mother’s not too robust health compelled Ann 
Amelia to assume in a bored, haphazard way, the 
household burdens her sister had carried so 
blithely. Aunt Annameel’s method was to do as 
little as possible each day, with an occasional 
grand clean-up when things got so bad that even 
she could endure it no longer. These spasms of 
housewifery, however, had grown less frequent 
and less comprehensive with the passing of the 
years, till they had come to be almost as purely 
legendary as the operation of sweeping cobwebs 
from the sky. Aunt Annameel had more impor¬ 
tant matters to occupy her mind and her time. 
She had her soul to look after, she said. It would 
be a terrible thing for her, if the Great Day found 
her unprepared. So she spent long hours each 
day over her Bible, and other long hours in medi¬ 
tation, swaying loudly and rhythmically in the old 
Boston rocker, the dust and litter growing ever 
deeper ’round her as she sat. She said she didn’t 
mind it, because she dwelt above the stars— 
Heaven was her home—but Grandma said it was 
because she was lazy. 

Of late she had made a practise of going about 
the house with arms upraised, palms uppermost 
— 4 ‘ receiving the spirit, ’ ’ she called it. But it was 
when she started “speaking in tongues” that 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 27 

Grandma Ferriss became worried, and began to 
recall a bad fall her daughter had had in her child¬ 
hood, and to wonder whether Aunt Annameel 
were really “quite right.” This “speaking in 
tongues” did sound rather alarming. It re¬ 
minded Grandma Ferriss of a dispute she had 
overheard aboard the “Sea Bird,” on a trip to 
the city some years before, between an ornate and 
unclean gypsy and a couple of Norwegian deck 
hands. By their gestures, it apparently had to do 
with the matter of chaining the gypsy’s several 
dogs. They all talked at once, and very loud, each 
in his own tongue, and the dogs in their tongue, 
and the noise was not unlike that made by Aunt 
Annameel, Grandma thought; though Aunt Anna¬ 
meel assured her it was as plain as a-b-c to those 
who were Anointed with the Oil of Understand¬ 
ing. Whereupon Grandma spoke tartly of the 
benefits to be derived from an anointing with soap 
and water, and Aunt Annameel retired to the 
Boston rocker to meditate or, as Grandma said, to 
sulk. 

Having so much on her mind naturally made 
Aunt Annameel dreadfully absent minded about 
other things—unimportant matters like cooking 
and marketing and the sewing on of buttons. 
. . . There was the time the chicken for Sun¬ 

day’s dinner disappeared so unaccountably. Mr. 
Krauss ’ boy had handed it to Aunt Annameel her¬ 
self at the kitchen door. Came Sunday morning, 
and time to prepare the plump fowl for fricassee. 
Grandma Ferriss was going to make biscuits to go 
with it; my, what biscuits Grandma could make! 
Inspection of the ice box, however, revealed not 
so much as a single pinfeather, though Aunt 
Annameel was sure she had put the chicken on the 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


36 

ice the very first thing. High and low they 
searched; no chicken. They had biscuits and 
butter and sliced tomatoes and “Bolivars” for 
dinner, and Mis’ Cap’n Sickles’ old yellow cat 
was made to shoulder the blame, along with his 
other iniquities. 

Within a few days a curious odor became 
noticeable in the kitchen. Soon it permeated the 
wiiole house, by which time it had ceased to be 
merely curious. Aunt Annameel opened a win¬ 
dow or two, and old Mis’ Black came to com¬ 
plain. . . . 

On a Thursday afternoon some three weeks 
later, Aunt Annameel made the annoying dis¬ 
covery that practically every garment in the 
house, and all the bed and table linen, was soiled; 
even the red-and-white patterned cloth on the kit¬ 
chen table where they breakfasted, could not be 
turned another time. There was no help for it— 
Aunt Annameel had to do some washing. Ho, 
hum! and oh, dear! Well, then, if it must be 
done! With a prodigious amount of sighing and 
grumbling Aunt Annameel gathered about her the 
paraphernalia of wash-day. She dragged the old 
copper boiler forth from its concealment, removed 
the lid . . . 

Oh, that chicken! That anciently defunct fowl! 
That horror of feathers and smell! . . . Fol¬ 

lowed certain necessary rites with chloride of lime 
and the coal shovel . . . and the absolution 

of Mis’ Sickles’ old yellow cat; even Aunt Anna¬ 
meel must concede his innocence, on the strength 
of the evidence right under her nose! 

The affair of the bacon was less tragic, though 
smelly enough in its way. To be sure Aunt Anna¬ 
meel didn’t put it away in the wash boiler; her 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


29 


fantastic blunders followed no precedent. She 
hung the flitch of bacon by its loop of string on 
the towel rack over the stove, after taking down a 
“tea towel’’ wherewith to wipe the dust from a 
seldom used 6 i spider ’ ’; which as you know if you 
ever have dwelt in certain rural communities of 
these United States, is not an insect with eight 
legs, but an iron frying pan with three, or even 
with none at all. Aunt Annameel then folded the 
towel very neatly, laid it in the “spider” afore¬ 
said, and set it over the fire to fry, while she went 
into the sitting room to meditate in the Boston 
rocker. 

Soon the towel was done to a turn; but Aunt 
Annameel continued to meditate, while it turned 
from brown to black, with a row of tiny sparks 
crawling round the edge; and instead of the appe¬ 
tizing odor of sizzling bacon, the atmosphere 
grew thick with the acrid smoke of burning rags. 

Another day it was the potatoes, which were to 
be baked for dinner. This time there were no 
fatalities, but likewise no baked potatoes. Aunt 
Annameel built up a good hot fire, w T ashed the 
potatoes, and put them to bake—but not in the 
oven. Instead she carried them “up attic,” and 
with infinite pains deposited them in Grandfather 
Ferriss’ old “hair trunk”—so called because it 
wore its covering of red and white spotted cow¬ 
hide au naturel; and here after many months 
Aunt Cindy found them, shriveled and dry, very 
mummies of potatoes; found them, and won¬ 
dered— 

Such minor idiosyncracies as shoveling coal into 
the bread box, and wearing her bonnet to bed, 
were too frequent to cause undue excitement. 
Grandma Ferriss and Barbara Ann had even come 


30 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


to contemplate almost unmoved, the spectacle of 
Aunt Annameel going about the house minus 
divers portions of her attire, such as dress-waist 
or stockings, when, as often happened, she would 
be too absorbed in matters not of this world, to 
remember to put them on. 

The climax came one terribly sultry night when 
Barbara Ann, restless with the heat, had got up 
from her little bed in Grandma’s room to get her¬ 
self a drink at the faucet in the hall. Almost at 
once Grandma Ferriss was awakened by a shrill 
scream of terror. Shriek after shriek assailed 
her ears as she scrambled out of bed; why, what¬ 
ever ailed the child? Grandma herself could have 
screamed, but had not the power. She was faint 
with dread of what might be outside that bedroom 
door—burglars, flames, a little body hurtling down 
the dark stairway—where was that doorknob? 

At last! The door swung wide, and on the thres¬ 
hold Grandma collided with Barbara’s little night- 
gowned figure, which laid hold of her and clung 
tight, sobbing frantically. And small wonder, for 
in the doorway opposite loomed a most terrifying 
apparition; Aunt Annameel, to be sure, but such 
an Aunt Annameel as neither Barbara nor her 
grandmother had ever seen. 

Apparently, she, too, suffered from the heat, and 
was about to sally forth in search of a cooler spot 
than her stuffy, close-shuttered bedroom, in which 
to read and pray. Her attire expressed haste and 
preoccupation and a lofty disregard of conven¬ 
tionalities. Her ragged nightgown reached but 
little below her knees, revealing an expanse of 
what were known in those days as limbs; which 
same were corpulent and not too shapely and 
ended in knitted bedroom slippers of a poisonous 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


31 


green tint, a bulbous great toe protruding from 
each like a toadstool from a mossy stump. 

Over her disreputable gown, in lieu of negligee 
or “dressing sack,” she had donned a yet more 
disreputable purple “basque”—the tight-fitting 
dress-waist of the day—wrong side out! Above 
this her calico apron was pinned shawl-wise, the 
strings dangling almost at her heels; from be¬ 
neath the cowl of a huge sunbonnet her wispy 
grey hair, damp with perspiration, strung weirdly 
about her face; and by way of a finishing touch, 
from head to foot she was smudged with some 
blackish substance, like soot. 

It was, in fact, lampblack. During some cold 
winter season long past, Aunt Annameel had 
striven to heat her room by the aid of a large 
kerosene lamp, which she had lit and then trust¬ 
ingly left to its own devices. For an hour or so 
it smoked away right merrily, while the room and 
all it contained took on an inky, oily coating which 
Aunt Annameel hadn’t yet “got around” to clean; 
and tonight, fumbling for matches wherewith to 
light her candle, she had received a liberal con¬ 
tribution on hands and clothing. Some of this 
she had transferred to her face, her left eye in 
particular being in total eclipse, her nose a mere 
blur. 

To add to her general grotesqueness, she stood 
with hands uplifted in the attitude of “receiving 
the Spirit”—a lighted candle in one, and in the 
other—the kitchen poker! Aunt Annameel, like 
many another who claims implicit trust in Divine 
Providence, was very much afraid of burglars, 
and never moved about the house at night un¬ 
armed ! 

For a moment Grandma Ferriss gazed speech- 


32 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


lessly at the fantastic figure in the flickering can¬ 
dlelight. Then she found her voice and, as is not 
unusual with silent people when they do speak, 
she used it with emphasis and authority. 

“For conscience’ sake, Ann Amelia Ferriss! 
What be you a-doin’?” she demanded. To which 
responded Aunt Annameel, her speech reflecting 
as usual the idioms of her familiar Book: “Can’t 
you see that I be about the Lord’s business?” 

“In that rig? No, I can’t!” snapped Grandma 
Ferriss; “and what’s more, if you can’t get the 
Lord’s business done in the daytime you better let 
somebody else do it that’s got more gumption! 
Plain foolishness, that’s all ’tis! Do you take off 
those things and wash your face and go back to 
your bed to once.” 

With one look at her mother’s flashing black 
eyes and upright figure, Aunt Annameel turned, 
lowered candle and poker, and groaning heavily, 
went back into her room and closed the door. But 
not before Grandma had glimpsed, pinned for safe 
keeping to the rear of the reversed basque—the 
wire bustle which Aunt Annameel was wont to 
assume whenever the occasion demanded fashion¬ 
able attire! 

Shaking with excitement and half-hysterical 
mirth (on account of the bustle!), Grandma Fer¬ 
riss drew Barbara into their own room and locked 
the door. She took the still whimpering little girl 
into her own big, feathery bed, soothing her with 
unaccustomed tenderness, the while she thought 
and planned. And the first faint streaks of dawn, 
stealing through the chinks of the broken shutters, 
softly touched the round face and the withered 
one, fast asleep at last. Grandma Ferriss had 
made up her mind! 


Ill 


Having made up her mind, Grandma Ferriss 
lost no time in executing her plan. That after¬ 
noon she locked herself in her room for a season, 
and when she came forth sought out Barbara Ann 
in the garden. A letter was pressed furtively into 
the little girl’s hand, the while she received minute 
whispered instructions as to how to reach the 
post-box on the corner, and what to do after she 
got there. It was the very first time Barbara 
ever had been sent on an errand, and she was 
ready to burst with pride. Not for worlds would 
she have betrayed Grandma’s trust; to get that 
letter out of her possession Aunt Annameel would 
literally have had to tear her to bits! 

But Aunt Annameel knew nothing of the letter, 
you may be sure, for Barbara kept it hidden in 
her dress when she passed the kitchen window, 
and Grandma Ferriss formed a rear-guard for 
the march to the gate. Once on the sidewalk 
Barbara dashed like a little brown streak for the 
mail-box and stood panting beside it, the letter 
clutched to her wildly thumping heart. 

What an adventure! Oh, but suppose Aunt 
Annameel should come after her, and catch her 
before anyone came along who was big enough to 
reach that narrow green flap high above her head! 
Suppose— 

“Why, hello, you funny little thing! Want me 
to mail that letter for you! Want to put it in the 
box yourself? Up you go! That’s it, lift the 
handle. There you are! Well, and did you come 

33 


34 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


to post a letter all by yourself? My, my, what a 
big girl! What’s your name, funnykins ? ’ ’ 

The big, jolly voice didn’t sound a bit like any 
voice Barbara had ever heard, and the big, jolly 
man who lifted her so easily and set her down so 
gently was quite different, too, from any man she 
ever had seen. Even his clothes were different— 
all black, and a queer straight-around collar, and 
his black vest came right up close to it, so you 
couldn’t see any necktie. She stole another shy 
glance, and saw that his hair was red and that he 
had freckles on his nose. She wasn’t a bit afraid. 
“My name is Bobbyann Thair,” she answered 
politely. And then she was afraid, after all, for 
he had seized her arms so tight that it hurt, and 
was stooping to look into her face. He said some¬ 
thing—very low—about God, Barbara thought, 
but wasn’t quite sure. 

Then he straightened up, but kept her hand in 
his as they walked on and Barbara thought he was 
going to cry; his eyes looked like that. Dear me, 
she hoped he wasn’t. She must say something, 
and then maybe he wouldn’t. “What’s your 
name ? ’ ’ she ventured at length. 

‘ ‘ They call me Father Christian, ’ ’ he answered 
very gently. “And this is where you live, isn’t 
it?” Barbara wondered how he knew, as she 
passed through the gate he held open for her. 

She often wondered about Father Christian in 
time to come, but it wasn’t until she was quite 
grown up that she understood why he had acted so 
queerly that day. ... It was not Barbara 
Ann Thair, but Sophie Ferriss’ little girl, who 
had so upset this big man with the strong arms 
and the jolly voice.. Because, long before there 
was any Father Christian, when he was just plain 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


35 


red-headed, freckle-faced Peter Christian O’Con¬ 
nor, Peter and Sophie had been sweethearts. Of 
course there was furious parental opposition on 
both sides, Peter’s mother having dedicated him 
to the church at a period far antedating any pos¬ 
sible religious proclivities on his part; when in 
fact all his ambitions, beyond that of obtaining 
suitable and sufficient nourishment at frequent in¬ 
tervals, were yet in abeyance. Likewise, whatever 
Mrs. Ferriss’ plans for her daughter’s future, 
they certainly did not include a husband of the 
Roman Catholic faith; her austere Calvinism 
holding all that pertained to the Church of Rome 
as of the devil and utterly to be abhorred. 

The pressure from both sides had been too much 
for the young people, scarcely more than children 
as they were. So presently Peter O’Connor had 
gone away to learn how to become Father Chris¬ 
tian and Sophie, after a year or so, had married 
the dark-eyed poet-farmer, David Thair. This 
was Father Christian’s first home-coming in the 
ten years since Peter 0 ’Connor, heartsick and half 
blinded with tears, had turned his back on love 
and its happiness. The encounter with Sophie 
Ferriss’ orphaned baby had sorely shaken the 
priestly heart he had thought so serene and well- 
disciplined. 

But from that hour Barbara Ann had a friend 
and champion who never failed her. If only he 
had suspected how very badly she was going to 
need one during the next few days! 

Supper was ready when the little girl entered 
the house, and Aunt Annameel had a sharp re¬ 
proof at her tongue’s end. ‘ 4 Well, why’n the 
world didn’t you came in when you were called? 
Where’ve you been?” she snapped, angrily. 


36 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Barbara looked hopefully at Grandma Ferriss, 
but she didn’t seem to be paying any attention. 
And Aunt Annameel must not know about the 
letter; Grandma had said so. “I—I was playing 
down by the hedge,” faltered Barbara Ann. 

‘‘You wasn’t there when I looked. Did you go 
outside?” Aunt Annameel was very stern now. 

“Y-yes, but only for a minute, Aunt Annameel! 
My ball—it rolled through—so I had to—” 
Barbara really was doing very well, all things 
considered; till, alas! Nemesis, disguised as the 
grocer’s boy, came knocking at the door. 

Barbara had always rather liked this grocer’s 
boy. His easy swagger, his loud and cheerful 
whistle, even the incomprehensible things he 
would call down to her from the dizzy eminence of 
his bicycle as he rode by the hedge, inspired her 
with admiration and respect. The mere fact that 
he could ride the thing at all entitled him, in Bar¬ 
bara’s eyes, to a place among the immortals. She 
never could fathom what kept it up on edge that 
way, nor why he didn’t go ’round with it. And 
that funny little wheel that trailed along behind, 
like a very small curled-up tail on a very big dog— 
“Evenin’, Mis’ Ferriss. Evenin’, Miss Anna¬ 
meel. Here’s them crackers you ordered; we 
didn’t have none this mornin’—they jest come in. 
Hullo there, Barb’ry! Wasn’t you pretty fur 
away fr’m home jest now, ’way down by the 
corner? Well, I gotta git along. G’night, all!” 
And Nemesis, all unsuspecting, went his way, 
shrilly imploring the return of his Bonnie to him, 
to him, all the way to the gate. 

But in the room he had left there was no sound. 
Barbara Ann shivered through eons of silence— 
silence that lay like a leaden weight on her heart. 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


37 


Grandma Ferriss looked at her plate. Aunt Anna- 
meel looked at Barbara Ann. And nothing hap¬ 
pened. Only silence. 

By and by Barbara would have begun her sup¬ 
per, but things didn’t seem to taste just right 
somehow. She decided she wasn’t hungry, after 
all, so she sat very still until the others had 
finished, then tried to slip away to bed unseen. 
She almost thought she had succeeded, but Aunt 
Annameel’s voice came floating over the banisters, 
hope-destroying, laden with dire significance: 
“Very well, then, Barb’ry Ann! You go right 
straight to bed; and we’ll see about this in the 
morning!” 

No printed word can convey the threat Barbara 
inferred from this last. To take her punishment 
forthwith and have done with it, that was no more 
than she had done lots of times; but here was a 
diabolical element of suspense, whether inten¬ 
tional or not on the part of Aunt Annameel. 
Poor Barbara Ann had all night long in which to 
speculate as to what dread form her punishment 
would take. Aunt Annameel was very clever in¬ 
deed at devising the unusual in the way of correc¬ 
tion. 

So yet another night the little girl slept in her 
grandmother’s bed, the old woman soothing her 
fears as best she could. “There, there, Barb’ry! 
Don’t take on so; you just keep still and it’ll be all 
right by and by. She shan’t do anything very bad 
to you! ’ ’ 

Slightly comforted, Barbara fell at last into an 
uneasy slumber, broken by dreams of punishments 
many and varied, from the time-honored and not 
unaccustomed spanking, to being toasted on a 


38 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


pitchfork over a pit of flames, like the pictures in 
the large thin hook on the settin’-room table. 

Morning came at last, yet all too soon. Barbara 
Ann went heavily downstairs and sought out Aunt 
Annameel in the kitchen, turning her back as usual 
to have her dress “buttoned up.” No word was 
spoken. Breakfast was got through in the same 
chill silence. After breakfast Aunt Annameel 
went to a drawer in the old highboy that served 
as a buffet, and took out a sheet of cardboard with 
big black letters on it. Barbara could not read, so 
Aunt Annameel read it to her. And this is what it 
said: I AM A LYER. Aunt Annameel explained, 
too, just what a “Iyer” was, and what became of 
little girls who were “lyers.” Barbara felt re¬ 
lieved, in a measure; at any rate that part of her 
punishment was far enough in the future to lose 
some of its terrors! 

Then Aunt Annameel, producing a piece of 
string, hung the placard securely around Bar¬ 
bara’s neck. “You will wear that all day today 
and every day for a week, Barb’ry Ann,” said 
Aunt Annameel, “and everybody who sees it will 
know just what you are!” 

Oh, the bitter shame and humiliation of those 
next few days! The effort to keep her back al¬ 
ways to the wall when anyone was near; the for¬ 
getting and starting out to play in the garden, and 
then remembering about Mis’ Cap’n Sickles al¬ 
ways peekin’ through her curtains. Once Mis’ 
Sickles had called Barbara to the fence and given 
her a cooky with a raisin in the middle; it was a 
good cooky, but Barbara hadn’t mentioned it to 
Aunt Annameel. Barbara thought she would not 
like to have Mis’ Cap’n Sickles know that she was 
a‘‘ Iyer! ’’ 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


39 


Thus for three days of the interminable seven 
did the little Ancient Mariner strive to keep her 
albatross as much as possible from the public 
view. Aunt Annameel prayed for her vigorously 
night and morning, but otherwise paid little atten¬ 
tion to her; Grandma Ferriss did not interfere, 
glad that the punishment was no worse; and on 
the fourth day— 


IV 


When Barbara had worn the penitential placard 
for two whole days, the evening hour of seven, 
which saw it removed for the night, also saw Aunt 
Lucinda Jane Adams at her home in Ashtabula, 
Ohio, reading aloud to her husband a letter she 
had received that day: 

4 ‘My dear Daughter I take my pen in hand 
to let you know that I am well, ’ ’—thus ran the 
stilted phrases—“and so is Ann Amelia I 
presume. Now Lucinda I want you should 
come home here right away. Ann Amelia is 
getting very Queer I can’t stand it like this 
any longer and I want you should come and 
set things to Bights. If Benj. can come too I 
Should be very pleased to have him make us 
a visit. We are all in usual health Hopeing 
you are the same. 

Yrs. Affectionately 

Mother 

Ps—Ann Amelia does not know that I write 
this. Come as quick as you can.” 

Lucinda Adams and Ben, her husband, sat silent 
for a time. Then Uncle Ben, between puffs at his 
pipe: “ I ’ll bring down the trunk from the attic— 
shall I? Or will you take the big telescope bag?” 

Aunt Lucinda rose and went to stand beside her 
husband’s chair. She laid an arm across his broad 
shoulders, just beginning to stoop a little; he drew 
her down and kissed her, holding her cheek close 

40 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


41 


to his for a long minute. Then she straightened 
up, speaking briskly. 

“The telescope will do. When I get there— 
well, we will see what we see. You better go down 
to the depot, Ben, and see about trains; and you 
might stop in at Mrs. Truman’s and arrange to 
get your meals there while I’m gone—” 

The words trailed oft into the kitchen, where 
Lucinda Jane was instantly at work, doing a 
dozen things at once, or so it seemed. Yet though 
she flew about with energy, it was nearly daylight 
when at last she lay down to snatch an hour’s 
repose. And then there was the hurried break¬ 
fast, the still more hurried clearing up, and Uncle 
Ben’s clumsy helpfulness, and a score of last di¬ 
rections about the cat and the parlor clock and 
the rose bushes and where to find the clean towels; 
and then in the cab on the way to the station, sud¬ 
denly there was nothing left to be said; or rather, 
there were no end of things, very important, too, 
but neither could remember what they were. 
. . . And then all the hurly-burly at the sta¬ 

tion; there was just time for a hasty kiss, a whis¬ 
pered good-bye, before Uncle Ben must jump from 
the already moving train. 

“Write as soon as you get there!” “Yes, yes, 
I will!” through the open window; and Uncle Ben 
was left standing bareheaded on the platform, 
gazing disconsolately after the train which was 
bearing Aunt Lucinda “back East” to the little 
town of Red Haven on the Shrewsbury, where she 
had been born and bred, but which she had visited 
but seldom since her marriage. 

In those days a railway journey from Ashta¬ 
bula, Ohio, to the “Jersey” coast, was not a thing 
to be undertaken without good and sufficient 


42 


ANANIAS , DAUGHTER 


reason. Lucinda Jane’s last trip east had been 
at the time of the tragic death of her sister Sophie, 
five years before. On that occasion her coming 
had been duly heralded by telegraph, and Ann 
Amelia had had time to make the house measur¬ 
ably presentable; anyway they were too dazed 
and grief-stricken to give much heed to matters of 
that sort. So Lucinda was all unprepared for the 
scene of desolation and wild disorder which 
greeted her when she opened the front door and 
entered the once-familiar “settin’-room.” 

‘‘Well, well, Ma! How do you do, Annameel! 
. . . Well, for goodness’ sake! . . . What 

in the world . . . What’s going on here, any¬ 

way? Are you going to move? Or is it an earth¬ 
quake, or what?” 

i ‘Cyclone” perhaps would have described it 
better. That very morning Aunt Annameel had 
decided to overhaul sundry closets and trunks and 
wardrobes in preparation for 4 1 Fall house clean¬ 
ing,” a ceremony that was much talked of annu¬ 
ally, but which hadn’t taken place in years. When 
Aunt Annameel did clean, she said, she liked to get 
right down to rock bottom and begin! 

Unfortunately, that usually ended the matter; 
having begun, she straightway stopped again, her 
unwonted energy vanished like a spent bubble. 
Her utmost accomplishment was the hauling out 
of things that had lain in drawer and trunk ever 
since she could remember, inspecting them list¬ 
lessly, and then returning them whence they came. 
Nothing was discarded, in fact there always 
seemed to be more things to put away—they never 
would fit in as they had before, and many had to 
be left out. Confusion piled on confusion. 

Today every chair in the sitting-room was 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


43 


heaped with antiquated garments; tables, mantel¬ 
piece and floor had each its burden of unfinished 
“fancy work,” rolls of “pieces,” ancient reti¬ 
cules, fans and shawls; bundles of outworn 
hosiery, packages of seeds, stacks of old letters; 
pasteboard boxes in all shapes and sizes and states 
of dilapidation, their contents bulging from 
broken lids. At least a dozen old umbrellas and 
sunshades sprawled in one corner, some minus 
handles, their coverings in rags; while from the 
chandelier hung by its knotted strings a ‘ ‘ pair of 
stays ’ ’ of the vintage of 1860! 

“Just gettin’ ready to clean house,” Aunt 
Annameel explained; “I brought ’em in the set- 
tin’-room because it’s cooler.” 

Lucinda Jane stared at her sister, at the old 
clothes, at the umbrellas and the dangling stays, 
then she dumped the contents of the nearest chair 
and sat down abruptly. “I’d use a shovel if I 
were you, Annameel!” she advised in a faint 
voice. 

When she had recovered her breath and taken 
off her things, and had heard all about Grandma 
Ferriss’ rheumatism and Aunt Annameel’s 
trouble with her breathing, and had told how well 
Uncle Ben was doing in the hardware business, 
suddenly she started up. “Why, where’s the 
baby?” 

Nobody seemed to know. The house was ran¬ 
sacked and then the garden, but no Barbara Ann, 
though they looked everywhere, even in the cis¬ 
tern! Everywhere, that is, except under the big 
bed in the never-entered “spare room,” where 
a little huddled bundle of misery crouched in 
trembling concealment! 


44 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Ever mindful of the brand she bore, Barbara 
had slipped discreetly up the backstairs at the 
sound of a strange voice, listening over the banis¬ 
ter until she heard her grandmother address the 
newcomer as “Lucindy.” Oh, oh! To have 
Aunt Lucinda, whom she hadn’t ever seen “since 
she could remember, ’ ’ make her acquaintance with 
that badge of ignominy and degradation upon her 
—it was too much! For a wild minute she enter¬ 
tained the thought of tearing it off and hiding it 
where Aunt Annameel never, never could find it; 
but she knew Aunt Annameel would find it, or else 
would make another and perhaps worse one. So 
it was herself she hid, placard and all, under the 
big bed; and Aunt Lucinda it was who dragged 
her forth, sobbing bitterly, after days and days 
and days —oh, of course, not really! It only 
seemed so to Barbara Ann. 

“Why, you precious baby! Whatever is the 
matter? Not afraid of Aunt Cindy, are you? 
Why, what’s this? You’re a whatf A 'LyerV 
Who said so? I don’t believe it!” And in a 
twinkling off came the hateful thing, and was 
broken into a dozen bits in Aunt Cindy’s strong, 
plump fingers. 

The gate of Yesterday’s Garden clicked shut 
behind Barbara Ann, and it was Another Day! 


y 


Beset by next-morning doubts as to the reality 
of overnight events, Barbara was still dubious in 
regard to the albatross matter; but nothing was 
said about it at breakfast, so she didn’t mention 
it either. A great peace had descended upon Bar¬ 
bara’s heart; peace, and joy, and a rapturous con¬ 
tent with the world as she found it. She was so 
happy! She wanted to jump around and wave her 
arms, and sing! And she did so, though handi¬ 
capped by the fact that she knew but one song, and 
had to sing that one over and over. It was a song 
she had heard at Hepzibah House; Aunt Anna- 
meel sang it at home sometimes, too, so Barbara 
knew most of the words: 

“This world’s a-yowl-ling wil-der-ness, 
Thah yend ap-proach-eth fast; 

Righ zup, ye saints, the Lord to bless, 

This day may be your last! 

This world’s a-yowl-ling wil-der-ness, 

(Yum turn, te turn te turn) 

The saints will hear in bles-sed-ness 
Thah way-lings of the damn’d! 

This world’s a-yowl-ling wil-der-ness, 

(Yum turn, te turn te turn, 

Yum turn te turn, turn turn te turn) 

When all—our—bones—are—dust! ’ ’ 

45 


46 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Funny, how Aunt Cindy had got her face dirty 
so early in the morning. She washed it quickly 
at the sink, and had to keep the towel over it ever 
so long before it was dry again and being a very 
rough towel, it made her face quite red, like Bar¬ 
bara’s own when she had scrubbed it good! And 
the cold water must have taken her breath away 
as it did Barbara’s sometimes, for her voice was 
all quivery when she spoke to Aunt Annameel, and 
sounded cross besides. “Annameel Ferriss, if 
you say“Now don’t!’ to that child one other time 
today, I’ll—I’ll slap you!” Yes, indeed, to Aunt 
Annameel she said it! Barbara heard, and waited 
for the lightning to strike; but the sky remained 
calm, the house still stood on its foundation, and 
Aunt Annameel went back to the Boston rocker! 

Without demur, almost eagerly, in fact, Aunt 
Annameel had surrendered the keys of office to her 
sister, and was giving exclusive attention to the 
condition of her soul. Aunt Cindy went about 
the house whistling—how she could whistle!—to 
keep down the consternation in hers, and Grandma 
was in the kitchen making caraway-seed cookies. 
Truly it was a golden day to little Barbara Ann! 

The coming of Aunt Cindy was like a wind from 
the sea at nightfall, after a day of land breeze. 
Literally, too, she brought ozone into the clut¬ 
tered, musty rooms, for she hadn’t been in the 
house an hour before every window that would 
open, was open. She started to open the shutters 
as well, but thought better of it. And now this 
morning she marched dauntlessly from room to 
room, considering where to begin. The dining¬ 
room was pretty bad, but the sitting-room was 
worse, owing to yesterday’s “house cleaning;” 
and the kitchen— 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


47 


“I can't do it alone—it would take a year!” she 
worried; ‘ ‘ But, oh, dear, I do hate to let a stranger 
in on such a mess—” She opened the parlor door, 
and shut it again, gasping. “Ma,” she called, 
“where’s a scrubwoman we can get?” 

Ma didn’t know. Neither did Aunt Annameel. 
There were niggers, of course—“Well, what about 
a carpenter, then?” 

There was a carpenter around on the back 
street, it seemed, so Aunt Cindy took off her apron 
and put on her hat—it had pink roses on it, and 
was the very prettiest hat that Barbara had ever 
seen; so the little girl thought as she clumped 
happily along, her hand tight in Aunt Cindy’s. 

And when they came to the carpenter’s house 
he wasn’t at home, and wouldn’t be till night; but 
Aunt Cindy talked with a plump, pretty woman 
who said she was his sister. Barbara Ann didn’t 
hear much that they were saying, because in the 
yard there was a little girl just her own size, who 
stood on one foot and put her finger in her mouth 
and looked at Barbara Ann. So Barbara Ann 
stood on one foot and put her finger in her mouth 
and looked at the little girl, since it appeared that 
was what you did when you met strange little girls. 
This little girl had on the cleanest and starchiest 
of pink frocks, not so very much faded. Her hair 
was long and brown and crimpy, her eyes were 
blue, and her nose delightfully snubby and well 
sprinkled with freckles. What a beautiful little 
girl she was! 

“Sure an’ I’ll come, an’ glad to,” the plump 
young woman was saying; “that’s to say, if I can 
fetch Kitty along. I can’t be after leavin’ her 
home alone all the day. ’ ’ 

Aunt Cindy turned and looked at Kitty, digging 


48 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


at a dandelion root with the toe of her small shoe. 
Then she smiled. “Of course you mustn’t think 
of leaving her, Mrs. Breen; bring Kitty, by all 
means! ’ ’ 

And then they were on their way home, and Bar¬ 
bara kept looking back at the little girl, who swung 
on the gate and kept looking at her. Already they 
were fast friends, though not a word had they 
spoken! 

Ah, those days of bliss that followed! Nearly 
every morning came Mrs. Breen and Kitty. Mrs. 
Breen and Aunt Cindy did things in the house, 
things that swished and crashed and bumped and 
rattled, while Kitty and Barbara Ann played hap¬ 
pily in the old garden. What wonderful games 
Kitty knew! First Barbara must be initiated into 
the mysteries of “counting out” to see who should 
be “it”; one didn’t exactly like to be “it,” but, of 
course, one had to, when it ‘ ‘ came out ’ ’ that way, 
or else it was “no fair.” “Eeny, meeny, miney, 
mo,” that was one way, and “One-ery, two-ery, 
ickery Ann” was another; but there was a certain 
thrill about 

“Wash your mother’s dishes, 

Hang ’em on the bushes; 

When the bushes begin to crack, 

Hang ’em on a nigger’s back; 

When the nigger begins to run, 

Shoot him with a leather gun! ’ ’ 

Having counted out twice to make sure, they 
played tag, both regular and squat. They played 
hide ’n’ seek, and hot ’n’ cold, and nearly every 
game that could be played by two little girls. 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


49 


Kitty brought over her doll, and her bean bag, and 
her jump-rope and jacks. And they played Hook- 
emsnivy. What! You never did! Well, this is 
the way it went: You took a long, strong stick, 
if possible with a hook or fork at the end, and you 
poked about in the heap of rubbish that Aunt 
Cindy and Mrs. Breen tossed from a back window 
upstairs. Sometimes you found very valuable 
things indeed, if you happened to be a little girl 
keeping house in the grape arbor! 

First Kitty was Hookemsnivy, and hooked a 
marvelous box all covered with little shells, while 
to Barbara’s lot fell a really remarkable pin¬ 
cushion in the shape of a boot, and so encrusted 
with tiny glass beads in most elaborate design, 
that no pin could possibly have found lodgment. 
And then it was Kitty’s turn again, and she fished 
up a tall jug plastered thickly with putty, into 
which had been pressed divers bits of assorted 
hardware—clock wheels, keys, a thimble, a broken 
corkscrew, collar buttons, pens; some wee china 
dolls, the sprawly wishbone of a duck, a pair of 
spectacles without any bows, and other objects not 
so easily identified; the whole gilded, and further 
adorned with a purple bow on the handle. Bar¬ 
bara then acquired a gilded rolling pin with a 
snow scene painted on it, and hooks screwed in 
below to hang things on. And there was a gor¬ 
geous bunch of peacock feathers, and a compli¬ 
cated arrangement of leaves and ferns done in 
“ spatterwork, ” and—oh, ever so many lovely 
things. 

Many of these “objets d y arV y were quite 
modern, and considered “real handsome” in an 
era which believed in gilding not only the lily but 
also the coal shovel. But Aunt Cindy, it appeared, 


50 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


had queer tastes in the matter of household deco¬ 
ration. She liked shining old furniture, and rag 
rugs, and tall candlesticks, and the sun streaming 
in through thin white muslin curtains, and pots 
of scarlet geranium on the window sill. In the 
eighties! 

When Sunday came there already was a great 
change in the old house; but many Sundays were 
to come and go before Aunt Cindy considered it 
really fit for humans to live in. This first Sunday 
she electrified Barbara Ann by bidding her “run 
out in the garden if you want to, Lambkins!” No 
verses, no sitting about trying to control her 
twitching limbs, and the parlor door was locked! 
When, late in the afternoon, Aunt Cindy called 
her to take a letter to the mail-box, her heart sang 
for joy. No sneaking past the kitchen window 
this time! She swung—I almost said swaggered 
—down the brick path to the gate, and marching 
straight up to the box, boldly asked a lady to drop 
the letter in for her. The lady smiled at her, too, 
but Barbara did rather wish it had been Father 
Christian, instead. 

Having read the other letter, we might as well 
read this one, too, if Uncle Ben doesn’t mind. It 
was addressed to Mr. Benjamin F. Adams, at 
Ashtabula, Ohio, and this is what it said: 

“ ... Mother was right, Ben; some¬ 

thing did have to be done. Part of it is done 
now, but there’s plenty more. Ben, dear, Ma 
and that baby simply can not stay here alone 
with Ann Amelia. She’s just plain loony] 
Either Ma wull have to come and live with us, 
or else we will have to come here to stay. I’ve 
been wondering about Whitford—does he still 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


51 


want to take over your interest? Why not 
make some arrangement with him, and come 
on here for a time, anyway? You’ve been tied 
down to the business for so long, a rest 
wouldn’t hurt you! Well, I don’t know as 
you’d find it so very restful here, just at first; 

I know 7 haven’t!—but fixing up things, and 
the garden and all, would at least be a change. 
You could make a sort of vacation of the out¬ 
door work, and then if we decide to stay you 
can look around for an opening here. I do 
believe it would kill Ma to leave the old place. 
She’s almost seventy now, though I can hard¬ 
ly realize it and she has lived here so many, 
many years! 

4 i No, I truly don’t think she would ever be 
happy out there. Not that she has been so 
very happy here, these past few years; but 
she has her memories, all twined about this 
place, and I feel as if we owed her the small 
happiness of spending the years that are left, 
right here among them. I’ve been to blame, 
that I haven’t seen how things were going. 
Sister Ann Amelia always was as queer as 
Dick’s hatband—wrapped half way around 
and then tucked under—and I might have 
known how it would be. 

4 ‘Now, Ben, you let me know what you think 
about it. Oh, Ben, dear . . . 

Well, well, never mind about the rest of the 
letter; it really doesn’t concern us in the least, 
though there’s no doubt it made pleasant reading 
for Uncle Ben! 

There followed other letters from Aunt Cindy 
to Uncle Ben, relative to the hiring of a pair of 


52 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


dusky buccaneers named Mose and Edwardina, 
and to matters of packing and shipping and clean¬ 
ing up. It is quite likely that for a season Uncle 
Ben was every bit as busy out in Ashtabula, Ohio, 
as was Aunt Cindy at the old home in Red Haven, 
New Jersey; and that, let me tell you, was very, 
very busy indeed! 

Mrs. Breen’s brother, the carpenter, came and 
opened the windows that Aunt Cindy couldn’t be¬ 
cause of their being nailed down; he repaired 
the sagging shutters, made screens to keep out 
the flies, and fixed some doors so that they would 
open and some others so that they would shut. 
Mrs. Breen scrubbed and scoured and polished, 
while Aunt Cindy dusted and sorted and arranged 
and “regulated,” till you wouldn’t know the 
place. Aunt Cindy said she didn’t blame Aunt 
Annameel a bit for shouting “Halleluia!” if she 
felt as good about anything as she did every time 
she heaved an armful of trash out that back win¬ 
dow! 

Aunt Cindy felt even better over the things that 
went into the wagon from the Rescue Home down 
on Water Street, which came nearly every day (by 
request) and carried away old clothes, furniture, 
carpets—even the sitting-room carpet with its 
gorgeous pink roses—all the household impedi¬ 
menta that had outlasted its usefulness in one 
home, but which might with proper furbishing 
be of service in another. Only the absolutely 
valueless was cast forth, a prey to the Hookem- 
snivies and finally to the flames. 

Each afternoon there was a bonfire in the kit¬ 
chen garden, superintended by either Aunt Cindy 
or Mrs. Breen, around which the two—no, three 
children danced and howled like young Apaches. 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


53 


Yes, three—and a dog. A Newfoundland dog, 
very big, very black, and very shaggy. 

The third child was a small boy for whose 
mother Mrs. Breen washed and worked-by-the- 
day. On a certain afternoon he had been sent 
down to Mrs. Breen’s with a message that had to 
do with tea-stains on a tablecloth and, directed by 
a neighbor, had followed on to the Ferriss place, 
arriving as the diurnal bonfire was in progress. 
And when the blaze had burned itself out, he must 
see the yard and the arbor and the summer-house, 
and all the treasures snatched from the burning 
by Kitty and Barbara Ann. 

In return he exhibited his loose tooth, which 
proved to be lots looser than Kitty’s; while Bar¬ 
bara Ann looked on, filled with mingled jealousy 
and dread. Try as she might, each small white 
tooth in turn, not so much as the tiniest wiggle 
rewarded her! 

Aunt Cindy, quietly observant, decided that the 
newcomer would “do,” despite the kilts and long 
fair curls which, considered in the light of his, 
perhaps, seven summers, proclaimed him a martyr 
to maternal pride. “Oh, I just can’t bear to have 
them cut! And he does look so sweet in dresses! ’ ’ 
You remember how it was! 

But apparently the little boy’s mother was 
about to bow to the inevitable; for at the first 
opportunity he whispered excitedly to the two 
little girls, ‘ 4 Say! D ’you know what I got, home ? 
It’s—PANTS!” 

After that he came often. His name was Jimmy 
Language, Barbara told Aunt Cindy. And the 
dog’s name was Rover. Of course! And Jimmy 
lived in a big house up on the hill—the new part 


54 


ANANIAS' DAUGHTER 


of the town—and they were ’Piscopals, and his 
papa was dead. 

Sometimes the three children played in Kitty’s 
yard, where there was a most fascinating “rock¬ 
ery.” Kitty’s Uncle Tim (Mr. Murphy, the car¬ 
penter), planned to have flowers in it next year, 
but the children thought it much nicer as it was. 
It made such a splendid fort, or a bake-oven, or a 
ship, as the exigencies of the situation might de¬ 
mand! But chiefly it was the delightful jungle of 
the Ferriss premises which formed their play¬ 
ground throughout the long summer days, and 
there they fluttered about and gabbled like three 
lively young sparrows, Barbara as chipper as the 
rest. 

Yes, and in the bosom of her family, likewise, 
Barbara Ann was coming out of her shell. Not 
clear ’way out, of course, but actually she was 
beginning, just a wee bit, to brighten up and 
chatter like other children, forgetting her shyness, 
and the “don’ts” and repressions of former days. 

For one thing, beyond the 6 6 If you please ’ ’ and 
“Thank you” necessary to gentility, Barbara 
never had been allowed to open her mouth at meal¬ 
times except to put something into it; and her first 
experiment in this line proved a real sensation. 

“I’m going to be a Cafflick like Kitty Breen 
when I grow up,” she announced one night at 
supper. 

They all stared. Aunt Annameel grew first 
white, then red, then purple. “Well, there! Now 
d’you see? That’s what comes of letting her run 
around with a mess of ignorant Irish brats!” she 
exploded. 

“Sss-sh!” cautioned Aunt Cindy; then to Bar¬ 
bara Ann: “Listen, dear; it would hurt Kitty’s 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


55 


feelings very much, you know, if you should tell 
her what Aunt Annameel said just now; you 
won’t, will you, Honey?” 

Barbara said she wouldn’t, and Aunt Cindy 
asked her why she wanted to be a Catholic. 

“ ’Cause I like Father Christian lots better’n 
that ole Mr. Stooper. Mr. Stooper always puts 
his hand on my head and presses down, and it 
hurts my neck; and he asks me if I am a good girl 
and do I love my Bible; and I don’t, and I 
wouldn’t tell him if I was naughty. But Father 
Christian, he comes in Kitty’s yard and plays ball 
with us. And”—after a moment’s reflection— 
“he has got such nice brown speckles on his nose! 
Can’t I be a Cafflick when I grow up, Aunt 
Cindy?” 

Aunt Cindy choked a little on a piece of bread, 
and had to drink a glass of water and wipe her 
eyes afterward. But she answered, “Why, I sup¬ 
pose so, Chicken, if you still want to—when you’re 
grown up! ” At which Aunt Annameel snorted, 
just as Grandma did when Aunt Annameel “spoke 
in tongues.” 

Aunt Annameel did a great deal of snorting 
these days. It must not be supposed that she ob¬ 
served, unprotesting, the many changes Aunt Cindy 
brought to pass. The matter of the open shutters 
she found especially disturbing, but Aunt Cindy 
merely waved her hand to Mis’ Cap’n Sickles 
through the open window, and laughed. 

4 4 All right, ’ ’ grumbled Aunt Annameel, 4 4 if you 
want all the neighbors gawpin’ in at you!” 

44 Let ’em gawp!” was Aunt Cindy’s cheerful 
response. “I don’t expect to be doing anything 
I ’ll be ashamed of! ” Whereupon Aunt Annameel 


56 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTEB 


retired to the parlor to nurse her indignation; 
only Grandma called it sulking. 

The parlor was Aunt Annameel’s last strong¬ 
hold. It occupied an entire wing and could be 
shut off from the rest of the house, so Aunt Cindy, 
already having her hands quite full, had decided to 
“tackle that later,” and it was now the only room 
in the house in which Aunt Annameel felt entirely 
at home. She foresaw eviction even here, in Aunt 
Cindy’s steady onward march of destruction, with 
her crazy notions about air and sunlight and dirt 
and clutter. What did such things matter in these 
last days, foreseen by the prophets of old? Now 
were “wars and rumors of war”; the newspapers 
were filled with accounts of disasters on land and 
sea, of fire and flood, of robbery and murder; all 
bearing out the ancient prophecies. ’Most any 
day now Aunt Annameel expected to be caught 
up in the air with the rest of the saints, in fulfil¬ 
ment of Divine Eevelation. The parlor was as 
good a place as any in which to wait, and far more 
peaceful than the rest of the house since Lucinda 
came. 

The delay, however, was disquieting; the more 
so since it became increasingly apparent that the 
two sisters never would be able to dwell in har¬ 
mony beneath the same roof. It also being fairly 
obvious that Aunt Cindy had no present intention 
of leaving, Aunt Annameel finally announced that 
she would do so herself. So with many a sigh and 
much groaning she packed her belongings, took her 
small patrimony and the Boston rocker, and in 
due course her departure; and went to abide at 
Hepzibah House, where the three women came to 
be known as “the Hepzibah sisters,” or less ele¬ 
gantly, in some circles, as “them Hepzibahs.” 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


57 


They were generally regarded as “ cracked/’ but 
harmless, and were not molested save now and 
then, when the spirit moved them to hymns and 
halleluias at unseemly hours. 

Aunt Cindy watched her down the street; then, 
with a sigh and a shrug, “Well, that ends that! 
Come on, Barbara, let’s go shopping!” 

And for several years to come, it was the end 
of Aunt Annameel so far as this story is con¬ 
cerned ; for only at rare intervals did she return to 
pay her filial respects to “poor Ma,” or to sniff 
at her sister’s “notions,” and sigh deeply and 
ominously over the joyous backslidings of Bar¬ 
bara Ann. 


VI 


That September of 1886 was a month of many 
new happinesses to Barbara Ann. In a way, per¬ 
haps, the most delightful of all was the new-clothes 
happiness; for with the living rooms brought out 
of chaos into a simple orderliness, Aunt Cindy 
suspended operations for a time, and began an ex¬ 
haustive survey of Barbara’s wardrobe. After 
which she again summoned the wagon from the 
Home! 

Were you ever a little girl who always had worn 
dresses of materials-that-would-wear, in colors- 
that-wouldn ’t-show-the-dirt; then all at once there 
was a dressmaker in the house, and yards and 
yards of pink checked gingham and blue checked 
gingham and bright “Scotch plaid,” and white 
dotted swiss, and lace and “hamburg” and “rick- 
rack,” and pink sash ribbon, and blue sash rib¬ 
bon, and trying on in front of the long mirror in 
Aunt Cindy’s room, and a regular hat from the 
milliner’s, and slippers with two straps across? 
Because if you never were, you won’t understand, 
and there’s no use trying to tell you what it meant 
to Barbara Ann. It was a simple enough outfit for 
a little girl of five, going on six, yet the very 
thought of the lovely things in process of con¬ 
struction made Barbara’s heart beat high, and 
brought a glow to her cheeks and a light to her 
eyes which made her a very different child from 
the somber-faced little girl we first saw peeping 
through the hedge that day in June. Dear me, 
how very long ago that was, to be sure! 

58 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


59 


Another delightful happening was the advent of 
Uncle Ben. Dear Uncle Ben, so big and gentle, so 
merry, so understanding! How different was the 
old house with him in it! His slow, twinkly smile, 
his deep voice that never went over your head as 
other voices did sometimes, but seemed to speak 
to something ’way down inside you, so that you 
had to pay attention and do exactly as he said; 
the—oh, the Uncle-Ben-ness of him!—seemed 
somehow to pervade the now cheerful rooms to¬ 
gether with the smoke of his old briar pipe. 
Grandma Ferriss expanded quite genially; Aunt 
Cindy was radiant, and prettier than ever, Bar¬ 
bara thought. As for Barbara herself, taking 
things all in all, she was so happy she just had to 
run out to the summer-house every little while and 
jump up and down and hug herself! Then she 
would run in and hug Grandma Ferriss and Aunt 
Cindy, and by and by, when she felt better 
acquainted, she hugged Uncle Ben. He hugged 
her, too, hard! And called her the funniest names, 
like Skeezicks, and Toodles, and Little Galliwum- 
pus. And teased her, worse than the grocer ’s boy 
ever did, but my, didn’t she love it! 

And yet a third happiness: It was school. You 
see Jimmy was going, and Kitty; and Barbara 
begged so hard that Aunt Cindy at last consented, 
though the child wouldn’t really be six till the day 
after Christmas. That was whole months away, 
and Barbara knew she couldn’t possibly wait so 
long; so to school she went, that gloriously bright 
September morning*—ah, never could she forget 
it. Dressed in crisp pink gingham, swinging 
along hand in hand with Kitty Breen, to the big 
new brick school on Front Street. Aunt Cindy 
had done something to her hair, too, so that it was 


60 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


quite a miracle of fluffiness; and her hair ribbon 
was pink, like her dress. 

Some misgivings she had as to the a-b ab mat¬ 
ter, but upheld by the consciousness of her pretty 
new frock, she marched boldly up to that dragon, 
only to find that there wasn’t any dragon, after 
all! Old a-b ab and all his tribe had long been 
banished to the limbo of the out-of-date; yet with¬ 
in a few short weeks, the shortest she ever had 
known, Barbara discovered that, mirabile dictu! 
She could read! And spell! And write! Real 
grown-up writing, like letters, not just printing 
like the “I AM A LYER” on that hateful old 
placard Aunt Annameel had made her wear when 
she was little! It made Barbara fairly shudder 
even now—and worst of all—what do you sup¬ 
pose ? Aunt Annameel really was one herself, all 
the time! Hadn’t she told Barbara, often and 
often, ever since she could remember, that if you 
swallowed the seeds of apples or of grapes, an 
apple tree or a grape vine would grow right up 
out of the top of your head? Then one day, quite 
by accident, one had slipped down and though for 
several weeks Barbara had mystified her family 
by going about with a worried expression, at in¬ 
tervals surreptitiously feeling the top of her head, 
still nothing came of it; so she had asked Father 
Christian over at Kitty’s one day, and he had 
laughed his big, jolly laugh and said, of course, it 
wasn’t true! After that Barbara never felt any 
awe of Aunt Annameel; whenever they met she 
would think, “Why, she’s only a ‘LYER’ just 
like me!” 

Nights-after-school, though, were the most fun! 
Sometimes there would be only Barbara and Kitty 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


61 


and Jimmy playing in the old garden; then again 
Bessie Paige and Stella Martine would come over 
—they weren’t afraid of witches any more, it 
seemed, and Barbara, for her part, now perceived 
that they were not birds of paradise after all, but 
merely rather homely little girls. Other children 
came, too, to play in the big yard—Minnies and 
Lizzies and Katies and Florries and boys in kilts, 
boys in Fauntleroy suits and boys in just plain 
“pants,” like Jimmy’s. And again after supper 
there often would be many little figures flitting 
about the grassy dooryard in the warm dusk, play¬ 
ing tag and puss-in-the-corner, or circling to the 
chant of “Water, water wildflower,” or “Go 
round and round the valley.” Sometimes it was 
the livelier “Farmer in the dell,” and “Lazy 
Alice, will you get up?” Or else marching under 
the clasped hands of the two tallest children, in 
“London Bridge is falling down, My— Fair — 
LAY-dee!” 

And then maybe a screen door would bang some¬ 
where, and “Geor-gee! Oo-hoo! Come, now!” 
And the circling figures would break and scatter 
—“G’bye, Bobbyann! ’Night, Tommy! G’night, 
Nellie! Be out t’morrah night! Good-night!” 

They were happy days for Barbara Ann. How 
different from all the days and weeks that had 
gone before, when she was just a lonely little girl 
in a dingy dress, longing for “somebody to play 
with! ’ ’ 

Not only were everydays different, but Sundays 
as well. Barbara went to Sunday-School now—to 
the ’Piscopal with Jimmy; for after a brief and 
meteoric career as a member of the Reverend Mr. 
Stooper’s infant flock, she had informed Aunt 
Cindy, very positively, that she didn’t want to be 


62 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


a “Presbyterium” any more. If she couldn’t be 
a Cafflick like Kitty she’d just as leave be a 
’Piscopal like Jimmy, she said; but “no more 
Presbyterium, please, Aunt Cindy!” 

For two Sundays, and two only, did Barbara 
Ann wend her way to the plain little white-painted 
church at the corner of Broad and Locust, there 
to be instructed in Biblical lore and the stern and 
rock-bound faith of her forefathers. On the first 
of these two Sundays she marched boldly forth as 
to some new and altogether delightful adventure, 
brave in dotted swiss and blue ribbons, a copper 
cent clutched tightly in one moist little palm. 
She hadn’t a very definite idea as to the reason 
for this last. Aunt Cindy had simply put it in 
her hand at starting, with a perfunctory caution 
against losing it. Perhaps Aunt Cindy thought, 
if she thought about it at all, that a knowledge of 
what to do with pennies in Sunday-School must be 
inherent in the race. And Barbara hadn’t liked 
to ask, thinking it one of the many things she 
ought to know and didn’t, which she seemed eter¬ 
nally to be encountering nowadays. 

She forgot all about it, however, in greeting 
some of her day schoolmates, gazing about the— 
to her—lofty building, and listening to the thunder¬ 
ous music of the pipe organ, the first in her ex¬ 
perience; so that she felt merely surprise and 
pleasure when a big boy stopped before her, ex¬ 
tending a wooden plate on which were a number 
of pennies. Barbara took one and said “Thank 
you” with great politeness. Things certainly 
were coming her way today! 

Quite unprepared for the burst of shrill childish 
laughter which greeted this dreadful faux pas, she 
did not at first understand that- she was its object. 



ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


63 


Realization flooded her face with scarlet. In an 
agony of embarrassment she turned helplessly to 
the teacher, a pretty young lady with a very red 
face, who didn’t laugh like the rest, but explained 
with gentle tact, so that the matter was speedily 
adjusted and the lesson proceeded, though gig- 
glingly, with Barbara struggling to keep back the 
tears of shame and mortification. 

Oh, would it ever be over, so that she could 
hurry home to Aunt Cindy! Even when at last 
Sunday-School was “out,” it seemed to Barbara 
Ann that jeers and laughter pursued her to her 
very gate. She flew into the house like a baby 
whirlwind, and hurled her quivering little body 
into Aunt Cindy’s kind arms, sobbing out over and 
over her passionate determination never, never, 
never to go near that old Sunday-School again! 

Bit by bit Aunt Cindy got the story, and when 
she knew, blamed herself vexedly. Sheer tragedy 
had all but engulfed this dear little, shy little, 
sensitive little girl, and all because Aunt Cindy 
hadn’t thought! 

“I tell you, Ben,” she declared that night, when 
Barbara Ann had been tucked into her little bed, 
kissed and cuddled and comforted almost into for¬ 
getfulness of the afternoon’s humiliation, “I 
ought to be spanked! I’m as bad as Annameel, 
every bit. To think I let that poor baby—I knew 
she hadn’t ever been to Sunday-School, nor my- 
where. Why, why didn’t I think ? ’ ’ 

And Aunt Cindy, wiping her own eyes, resolved 
upon greater forethought in future; and not only 
that, but characteristically set about planning 
sweet vengeance as a balm to Barbara’s lacerated 
pride, and a restorative to her self-respect. 

Her plan was duly unfolded as the next Sunday 


64 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


approached, and again the little girl sallied forth, 
brave in dotted swiss and pink ribbons, face 
flushed, head high, a coin clutched tightly in one 
moist palm. She did not hear the organ today; 
the loftiness of the high-arched roof did not im¬ 
press her; she was watching for that boy with 
the plate of pennies. . . . 

Now he stood before her. Ve-ry de-lib-er-ate-ly 
Barbara Ann opened the moist little fist, took 
therefrom the imprisoned coin, and slowly raising 
it well above the extended plate, so that none of 
its luster should be lost or shadowed, she dropped 
it ringingly into the midst of its baser brethren. 

The giggles ceased abruptly; the score of gim¬ 
lets resolved themselves into twenty pairs of eyes, 
blue, brown and otherwise, but all respectful; for 
the gleaming coin with which Barbara had swelled 
the infant class contribution for that Sunday to 
almost undreamed-of proportions, was nothing 
less than a silver dime! 

The lesson continued in awed silence. At its 
close two little girls offered to walk home with 
Barbara Ann, but when they emerged from the 
building there were Uncle Ben and Aunt Cindy, 
and Grandma Ferriss, too, in an elegant surrey 
with two horses (from Robinson’s livery) wait¬ 
ing to take Barbara for a drive out along the beau¬ 
tiful Shore Road, where the rich “ summer 
people” from New York dwelt in stately cupolaed 
mansions. The children who lived in these houses 
had the most icon -derful clothes—silk dresses, 
and all kinds of jule-ery, and they could ride every 
day in carriages like this if they wanted to. But 
Barbara felt no envy, for her own triumph was 
complete when she climbed into the front seat 
beside Uncle Ben and drove away in blissful 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


65 


grandeur. Not for all the world and the fat Bol¬ 
ton boy’s pony, would Barbara have exchanged 
the memory of that ineffable moment. 

It was Barbara’s first lesson in the invincibility 
of wealth, and Aunt Cindy was not wholly at ease 
as to its wisdom. Snobs and toadies shared her 
contempt in equal degree. But, thinking it over, 
she found comfort in the reflection that Barbara 
was sure to run afoul of it sometime: “Guess the 
young one might as well learn it right now from 
these little—uli—calf-worshippers, kotowing to a 
silver dime!” she decided, and let it go at that. 

Nevertheless she thought there was no need of 
unduly impressing the matter upon the young 
plasticity of Barbara’s mind, and since the child 
stood stubbornly by her determination to renounce 
Presbyterianism to the end of time, it might be 
as well, perhaps, to let her u be a ’Piscopal like 
Jimmy, ’ ’ if she wanted to, as the avowed alterna¬ 
tive to embracing Catholicism with Kitty Breen. 
So from that time forth the little girl attended St. 
Barnabas’, where she wouldn’t be reminded of 
the time she had been a plutocrat for a day, daz¬ 
zling hoi polloi with her vulgar display of riches! 

The very first Sunday Barbara made up her 
mind that she liked Mr. Seabrooke nearly as well 
as she did Father Christian himself and found 
that “learning the Golden Text” for her imme¬ 
diately-adored teacher, Miss Agatha Lawrence, 
was quite another matter from “memorizing a 
verse of Scripture ’ ’ for Aunt Annameel. Another 
early and very interesting discovery was that 
they had a different God at St. Barnabas’, not a 
bit like Aunt Annameel’s God. Miss Lawrence 
told her all about Him and how He rather ’spe¬ 
cially loved little girls who hadn’t any earth- 


66 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


fathers to love them; for this God, you see, was 
the God of Loving-kindness, while Aunt Anna- 
meel’s God was the God of Wrath. 

It wasn’t long before Aunt Cindy and LTncle 
Ben began going to St. Barnabas’, too. In the 
beginning they, like Barbara Ann, had attended 
the First Presbyterian, where Aunt Cindy had 
gone to church before she was married and went 
to Ashtabula to live—they had another minister 
then, not Mr. Stooper—and which had been the 
Ferrisses’ church ever since Grandpa Ferriss’ 
father’s day. Along at first Aunt Cindy had like¬ 
wise tried to persuade Grandma to go with them 
“to hear Mr. Stooper,” thinking she might find 
new interests in old associations and that anyway 
it was bound to do her good to get out and see 
people as in years gone by. Finally, one Sunday 
morning, after much coaxing, she did go and came 
home steeped in indignation, condemning “the 
hull performance” flatly and unequivocally—the 
choir, “perked up there in front to show off their 
best clothes”; the new cornet player; Mr. 
Stooper’s black silk gown and fine linen bands, 
which were pure folderol and moreover bordered 
on Popishness; but most of all, the twenty-minute 
sermon. 

As of old, Grandma Ferriss had taken a plenti¬ 
ful supply of “pep’mints” in her pocket, in antici¬ 
pation of a good old-fashioned discourse on 
damnation, predestination and such-like vigorous 
doctrines. She had settled herself for a season 
of genuine enjoyment. Why, she was real glad 
she came! The Reverend Mr. Stooper, as she 
supposed, had concluded his introductory remarks 
and was about to set forth the true meat of his 
discourse, when to her astonishment he closed the 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


67 


big Bible and announced a hymn. Grandma cer¬ 
tainly did think it queer to stop and sing a hymn 
right in the middle of the sermon that way, but 
prob’bly it was another of these new-fangled no¬ 
tions. So she quavered through “How Firm a 
Foundation,” and waited expectantly for Mr. 
Stooper to proceed. 

Even as she waited, the service came to an end, 
and Mr. Stooper was pronouncing the benedic¬ 
tion! Chagrin followed on bewilderment, and 
then and there Grandma Ferriss forswore church¬ 
going for all time. “When I get t’ hankerin’ for 
mush an’ milk”—thus would she demolish all 
Aunt Cindy’s arguments—“I’ll cook it myself, 
thank ye, and eat it to home! ’ ’ That was final; 
the sanctuary saw her no more. 

Then Uncle Ben and Aunt Cindy decided that 
it wasn’t necessary and really didn’t seem right, 
for the family to be all split up like that on the 
question of religious observance. Uncle Ben said 
that since they all were bound for the same port, 
what matter whether they traveled by way of pre¬ 
destination, conversion, confirmation, or a tank 
of water under the pulpit floor! And for prece¬ 
dent, Aunt Cindy recalled that Grandma’s people, 
the Hanchells, up York State, had been Episcopa¬ 
lians, Grandma having “gone over” to the Pres¬ 
byterians when she married Grandpa Ferriss. 

Neither Aunt Cindy nor Uncle Ben so much as 
hinted that the personal affairs of the Reverend 
Mr. Stooper might have anything to do with the 
matter, though in private Uncle Ben had been 
heard to make grumbling reference to a “weak 
brother,” and Aunt Cindy was emphatic about 
something or other being “a shame.” . . . 

Heretofore Mr. Stooper’s susceptibility to femi- 


68 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


nine charms had but served to keep up the at¬ 
tendance at prayer meeting and a high pitch of 
interest in the missionary society and the Ladies’ 
Aid. He was a bachelor, a ‘ ‘ catch, ’ ’ and he kept 
them guessing. But this affair with a married 
woman! Ah, that was different! And not all his 
parishioners were as reticent as the Adamses. 
There were noddings and whisperings that grew 
into rumors, and rumors that took solid form as 
facts, till the minister’s love affair, probably not 
criminal in itself nor anything worse than foolish 
—the last despairing clutch of fatuous middle age 
at the skirts of fleeting youth and romance—bade 
fair utterly to disrupt the church. 

Many, staunch and upright descendants of a 
generation that fought and sacrificed for its faith, 
indignant at the weakness of their pastor and his 
unworthiness to uphold the sacred traditions of a 
great denomination, and the ideals of right and 
truth and courage for which it stood, scattered, 
temporarily at least, to other churches. The more 
frivolous stayed to “see it out,” till a stirring 
Session meeting, followed by Mr. Stooper’s resig¬ 
nation, cleared the atmosphere and brought back 
most of the stragglers. 

Inevitably some did not return, Uncle Ben and 
Aunt Cindy among them. They remained at St. 
Barnabas’ partly on Barbara’s account, but part¬ 
ly because they really liked it. Mr. Seabrooke, ac¬ 
cording to Uncle Ben, preached regular he-ser- 
mons, and there were other advantages. In the 
matter of exercise, for instance: Uncle Ben 
claimed that "all that getting up and getting 
down, you know, takes the kinks out of you in 
great shape!” 

Yes, Uncle Ben certainly liked the service at 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


69 


St. Barnabas’, and very proud was he when he 
was able to follow its intricacies without undue 
assistance from the Book of Common Prayer. 
One thing' only gave him concern. Invariably, 
when he should have been devoutly murmuring 
“—have left undone those things which we ought 
to have done; and . . . have done those things 

which we ought not to have done—,” he would 
instead, and with great unction confess to having 
done those things which he ought to have done, 
and that he had left undone those things which he 
ought not to have done; which may have inter¬ 
fered to some extent with the devotions of his 
immediate neighbors, but otherwise probably did 
no real harm. 

But we digress. . . . Everything was dif¬ 

ferent nowadays with Barbara Ann. Each morn¬ 
ing she arose to a world new-made, sure of finding 
some delightful surprise just around the corner 
of the day. Once it was a really, truly little live 
kitten, something Aunt Annameel never would 
allow her to have, though the child’s heart had 
yearned achingly over every feline waif that wan¬ 
dered into her domain. Aunt Annameel detested 
cats! So when a bit of grey fluff, bright-eyed and 
mewing hopefully, strayed to the door one day, 
Barbara rather timidly asked Aunt Cindy if she 
might keep it. But it seemed Aunt Cindy was dif¬ 
ferent about that, too, as she was about ’most 
everything. 4 ‘Why, of course, Lambkins, if it 
doesn’t belong to any one,” was her amazing 
answer. 

For days Barbara lived in dread of a probable 
claimant. It was inconceivable that anything so 
precious, so infinitely desirable, should be relin- 


70 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


quislied without thorough and desperate search, 
but when at last it began to seem unlikely that she 
would have to part with her treasure, after all, she 
and Kitty set about finding a suitable name for it. 
Barbara had had no experience in the christening 
of cats, but Kitty knew a perfectly grand name. 
It was Ethel. Kitty’s mother washed for a lady 
up on the Hill and the lady’s little girl was called 
Ethel; and Ethel was a pretty name, Barbara 
thought. So Ethel the kitten was named and 
Ethel he remained ever after, even when he had 
become a huge and somewhat dissipated old tom¬ 
cat, much given to late hours and musical affairs 
in the back garden. 

Barbara had quite dreaded introducing Ethel 
to Jimmy’s dog Rover, for whom the kitten would 
have made but a moderate-sized mouthful. In 
agonized suspense she witnessed their first meet¬ 
ing, fully expecting to see her pet disappear at a 
gulp. Not so Ethel. With arched spine and 
flattened ears he held his ground against his 
mighty adversary, every hair on tail and body 
standing at attention, his tiny pink mouth spitting 
unexpurgated defiance into the huge black face 
above him. 

4 ‘Well, well, well! What a little spitfire it is!” 
Rover seemed to say with amiable tail-waggings, 
as he reached out a paw and gently turned the 
amazing little object over on its back. Ethel 
scrambled to his feet and bounded away in little 
sidelong hops; creeping stealthily back as though 
to pounce on the big fellow and crush him to a 
pulp, but instead finding himself reversed as be¬ 
fore, the instant he came within reach. The game 
went merrily on until both were tired, whereupon 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


71 


they lay down together, the kitten curled up 
against the dog’s shaggy coat. 

Presently Rover laid his head across an out¬ 
stretched paw, and Ethel straightway began to 
wash the big black face with a tongue that was 
pink and friendly and very conscientious; but 
finding it rather more than a kitten’s-size job, he 
desisted after a time and gave himself a bath 
instead. After which they went cozily and com- 
panionably to sleep, like the lion and the lamb of 
prophecy. 

Again, among the blessed new joys in Barbara’s 
changed world, w r as an unforgettable day in New 
York with Aunt Cindy, a day of shopping and 
other unaccustomed delights. They went up in the 
“Sea Bird”; that alone was almost bliss enough 
for one occasion. The “Sea Bird” was a little 
old side-wheeler— is, for that matter—unless she 
has finally gone to pieces like the deacon’s famous 
shay. She made her daily trip to the foot of 
Franklin Street for the half of “a hundred years 
to a day,” at least, and was like the jack-knife 
which, provided now and again with new blades 
and a new handle, was the same old jack-knife 
still! 

No millionaire’s sea-going yacht would ever 
loom so huge, so palatial as did this tubby little 
freight-and-passenger steamer in Barbara’s won¬ 
dering eyes, on this her first far journeying. It 
may strain credulity to a shred, but none-the-less 
it is true that until Aunt Cindy’s coming Barbara 
hadn’t ever been anywhere in all her life! Her 
goings-about in company with Aunt Annameel 
never had taken her farther than Hepzibah House 
or Dickerson’s grocery, and once to call on Cousin 


72 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Mary Lane on the other side of town; even since 
Aunt Cindy came and there had been school to 
go to, and Sunday-School, and over-to-Kitty’s and 
sometimes up-to-Jimmy’s, still she hadn’t ever 
been really-and-truly, out-of-town, 4 ‘away.” So 
that the three-hour trip up to the city and the 
journey back by train was like an excursion to 
another planet. All that she saw impressed her 
to a degree unknowable by the movie-fed young¬ 
sters of today, sated with train and motor-rides, 
and turning upward but a languid eye at the roar 
of an aeroplane overhead. 

Even in her own generation Barbara was a little 
hermit; not one of her contemporaries but had 
been up to the city lots of times, both by boat and 
on the cars; and to the beach at Long Branch or 
Barnegat, and to Grandpa’s at Thanksgiving or 
to Uncle Bill’s farm in the summertime. And 
now at last Barbara herself had become a 
Traveled Person! 

Clinging close to Aunt Cindy, she embarked on 
a sea of sights and sounds out of which rose cer¬ 
tain lofty peaks of memory: A man in a blue coat 
who walked about ringing a bell and calling out 
“All ashore that’s going!” Barbara was sure he 
had made a mistake; he must have meant “All 
ashore that aren’t going! ’ ’ Well, glory be! Bar¬ 
bara and Aunt Cindy were going, so they wouldn’t 
have to go ashore, anyway! . . . The broad 

decks, where one could walk about and even play 
a little, though never far from Aunt Cindy, smil¬ 
ing in sympathy. . . . The flapping awnings 

—what witchery in their shade! . . . The 

wide branching stairway that heaved so discon¬ 
certingly when they went down to the “ladies’ 
cabin,” where there were rocking chairs and a 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


73 


bench around the sides with a long red cushion 
like the pews in church. Aunt Cindy wanted Bar¬ 
bara to lie down for a little, lest she grow tired 
before the day had well begun, but Barbara found 
it quite impossible. There was a large colored 
lady in a white apron, who talked to every one, 
and people coming and going, and a little boy cry¬ 
ing, and a woman who had lost her purse—no, 
Barbara couldn’t sleep, that was sure; so they 
went back up the grand stairway-that-wouldn’t- 
be-still, and sat on funny little chairs that could be 
folded up; and after a while Barbara began to 
feel rather queer, as if she had eaten too much of 
something for breakfast, though really she had 
hardly touched her oatmeal and cocoa, she had 
been so excited. 

They were out of the river now, Aunt Cindy 
said, and pointed out a strip of sand which she 
called the Hook. Presently there came two dark 
men who played on a violin and a harp, and after¬ 
ward the violin one came and held out his cap to 
everybody to put money in. Aunt Cindy gave him 
some, and he smiled with all his nice shiny teeth, 
and said ‘‘ thank you ’ ’ so funnily! 

By that time Barbara’s breakfast wasn’t bother¬ 
ing her so much, and she was able to wave with 
the rest when they met the “Albertina,” which 
Aunt Cindy said was the “Sea Bird’s” sister. 
. . . After that they saw on an island a great 

immense lady all made of stone and iron, and some 
queer-looking things sticking up out of the water, 
which Barbara understood Aunt Cindy to say 
were boys, but, of course, that must be a mistake, 
for any one could see that they weren’t boys at 
all! . . . And goodness gracious, what queer 

boats! The funniest were the ones that walked — 


74 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


not with legs, of course, like people—but with an 
odd shaped affair on the roof. And there were 
tugs, and scows, and ever so many more that she 
couldn’t remember, but none so wonderful as this 
that they were on. 

At last came the tying up to the dock, and going 
off the boat into a huge covered shed, miles long, 
it seemed, filled with great rumbling trucks and 
piles of freight, and hoarsely yelling men, and 
horses clattering over the worn plank flooring. 
How Aunt Cindy, alert and capable, managed to 
thread a way through that thundering chaos was 
a mystery to Barbara Ann, whose heart was all 
but choking her in her terror. 

Then the horse cars, and Barbara could rest her 
trembling legs, but got a crick in her neck trying 
to see both sides of the street at once. They went 
to Ridley’s in Grand Street—Barbara hadn’t 
dreamed a store could be so big! And afterward 
to Macy’s, bigger still. Aunt Cindy bought Bar¬ 
bara a winter coat and a beautiful bonnet made of 
red velvet, with a feather on it; besides a lot of 
uninteresting things like stockings and under- 
waists and flannels. 

Pretty soon Aunt Cindy asked Barbara if she 
weren’t hungry, and as Barbara was, very, and so 
was Aunt Cindy, they went to a place Aunt Cindy 
said was the Derry Kitchen, though it looked more 
like a dining-room to Barbara Ann. A man in a 
white apron brought them griddle cakes and maple 
syrup—how funny to see a man wearing an apron 
—Barbara meant to ask if he was Mr. Derry, but 
forgot it in her blissful uncertainty as to whether 
she preferred ice cream or Charlotte Russe for 
dessert. Barbara Ann never had tasted either. 

After that the events of the day glided off Bar- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


75 


bara’s consciousness, leaving scarcely a trace. 
She did note a curious smell on the ferry-boat, like 
—like—well, she couldn’t tell, exactly, what it was 
like; and the train going so fast that she couldn’t 
count the telegraph poles; and Aunt Cindy wak¬ 
ing her up w T hen they were ’most home; and fall¬ 
ing asleep again over her supper; Uncle Ben or 
somebody must have carried her up to bed, for 
there she was in the morning when the sun 
streamed in across her pillow to wake her, as it 
always did on bright mornings. 

Ah, well, to journey abroad is glorious indeed; 
but best of all were home, and loving hearts, and 
her little white bed at the end of the day! 


VII 


To Grandma Ferriss and the others, however, 
“home” was now not altogether the haven of rest 
that it may have seemed to travel-worn Barbara 
Ann. Many were the changes, indoors and out; 
for when Uncle Ben and Aunt Cindy found they 
must live with Grandma, since she couldn’t or 
wouldn’t go to Ashtabula, Ohio, to live with them, 
they set about “fixing up” the old house to look 
more as if folks lived there, and not so much like 
an asylum for spooks and spiders, as Uncle Ben 
said. Grandma Ferris had demurred about the ex¬ 
pense, but Uncle Ben promised to share it, since 
it was to be his home as well as hers; so probably 
Grandma wouldn’t have to go to the poorhouse 
after all, as she had feared, which was a comfort. 

Forthwith had begun such a banging and ham¬ 
mering, with Mr. Murphy there most of the time, 
such digging and clipping and chopping out in the 
yard where Uncle Ben was at work, as nearly 
drove Grandma distracted, but which seemed the 
acme of joyous excitement to Barbara Ann. Best 
of all, Aunt Cindy had found time to “tackle the 
parlor,” a proceeding that gave promise of un¬ 
limited Hookemsnivying and bonfires galore. 

The first step, of course, was to carry out the 
accumulation of newspapers, and this Aunt Cindy 
had started to do, with Barbara and Kitty and 
Jimmy dancing about in gleeful anticipation, 
when Grandma Ferriss spoke: 

“Lucindy,” said she, “you better look those 

76 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


77 


over real good before you burn ’em up. Annameel 
used to hide things in there, sometimes.’’ 

“What kind of things?” demanded Aunt Cindy. 

“Well, money, sometimes, and letters; and 
things she would buy of peddlers and such-like.” 

Aunt Cindy sat right down on the floor and went 
to work. Every paper was opened and shaken, 
each magazine examined for hidden treasure. 
“Oh, no, Ma—I don’t believe there’s anything 
here,” she presently reported. 

“Well, you just keep right on a-lookin’!” 
Grandma was very positive about it, so Aunt 
Cindy, though skeptical, did keep on looking. 
And at the end of the day this is what she had 
found: First, a letter from herself to Aunt Anna¬ 
meel, dated some three years before, and still con¬ 
taining the five dollars she had sent as a Christ¬ 
mas gift; another letter, from Uncle Ben, also held 
five dollars “to get something nice for Mother”; 
while yet a third, from the family lawyer, enclosed 
a check for thirty dollars and fifty-four cents, evi¬ 
dently interest on some small investment. 

Scattered through the papers, in sums from ten 
cents to ten dollars, were loose bills and silver to 
the amount of $46.90, not to mention things of 
lesser value; sundry family photographs, tracts, 
recipes, crochet patterns; silver spoons, kettle 
holders, bolts of ribbon, enough hideous red-and- 
black calico to make two or three grown-up 
dresses; several quite new papers of pins, yards 
upon yards of cotton lace, and a heavy old-fash¬ 
ioned pancake griddle with the handle at the 
side. 

“There!” exclaimed Grandma Ferriss, “I’ve 
hunted and hunted for that griddle, for more’n a 


78 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


year! Do look, Lucindy, and see if she hid my 
other specs in there, too!” 

Aunt Cindy had reached the mound in the 
corner when Grandma called hopefully , i ‘ Are they 
there, Lucindy?” 

“No, Ma,” was the reply, “but I’ve found the 
piano!” 

At supper they discussed the disposition of the 
money, amounting to the princely sum of—well, 
you can figure it for yourself! Uncle Ben said 
he s ’posed Aunt Cindy would hustle right down to 
Hepzibah House and give it to Aunt Annameel; 
but Grandma interposed. 

“No, mom! You’ll do no such a thing, Lucindy 
Jane! That money was all mine, except the five 
dollars you sent Annameel—and if she wanted 
that very bad she should have took better care of 
it! And what I want you should do is—soon as 
ever the savings bank is open tomorrow morning, 
you take that money right down and start an 
account for Barb ’ry Ann—every last cent of it! ” 

Then Uncle Ben said he’d put in enough more 
to make it an even hundred; and that is how Bar¬ 
bara Ann acquired a bank account. Just think! 
All in a few short weeks this once-so-lonely-and- 
forlorn little girl had amassed a fortune, a family, 
friends, pretty clothes, and a grey kitten named 
Ethel! That was long before the fashion of 
Browning clubs, but Barbara’s heart knew the 
meaning of “God’s in His Heaven”—all was 
right with her world! 

The transformation of “the old Ferriss place” 
was not completed over night. The seemingly end¬ 
less repairs made necessary by years of neglect, 
the alterations and additions, the tearing down 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


79 


and building up, filled many months with turmoil, 
till even Aunt Cindy herself grew well-nigh dis¬ 
couraged. But at last came a time when people 
passing in the street would say to one another, 
“Why, is it, reallyf” and turn again to stare, 
scarce believing they saw aright, or that the pleas¬ 
ant, dignified dwelling set in its well-ordered 
grounds could be in very truth the shabby struc¬ 
ture they long had known. 

Wide porches, fresh paint, and the unshuttered 
windows gave to the house an air of cheerful hos¬ 
pitality quite in contrast with its former dinginess 
and gloom; the roof no longer shed its shingles 
with every gust of wind; the chimneys once more 
were four-square. At evening, mellow lamplight 
filtered through thin muslin or creamy net, 
straight-hung in an era of “drapes”; the neigh¬ 
bors in conclave voted it “dreadful plain-looking! 
—and yet there’s something about it—” 

Yes, there was “something about it”; and that 
something was Aunt Cindy. And out in the yard 
there also was something, which was Uncle Ben. 
The changes here matched the changes indoors, 
and supplemented the altered appearance of the 
house itself. The hedge, Barbara’s prison wall of 
old, had been plucked forth root and branch, 
brands for the winter’s burning; more than one 
too-shady tree had felt the ax and the superabun¬ 
dant shrubbery was reduced to a clump of rhode- 
dendrons in one corner, a big syringa bush at the 
end of the porch, and some lilacs farther back. 
The tottering old fence that had divided the door- 
yard from the middle garden now reposed in the 
cellar, neatly split and piled for kindling, so that 
the arbor led directly from the “back dooryard,” 


80 ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 

flanked by the splendor of Aunt Cindy’s flower 
beds. 

Aunt Cindy, it seemed, had but to put a few 
seeds in the ground and pour over them a libation 
of cool water, when forthwith up rose a blaze of 
flowering annuals and perennials to bloom with all 
their might, in season and out. Never were such 
sweet-peas as hers, nor “bleeding-hearts,” nor 
Canterbury bells; her very hollyhocks didn’t lop 
over like other hollyhocks, but bore their cups of 
rose and white and crimson with haughty erect¬ 
ness. 

And what great masses of phlox, what beds of 
poppies and of scarlet sage, what flaming spikes 
of gladioli in long rows, and iris, blue and golden! 
Velvet pansies cuddled close to the warm earth, 
cheek by jowl with fragrant heliotrope and mig¬ 
nonette, and fiery nasturtiums hiding under theil 
green umbrellas. There were roses, too, and great 
dashing peonies, and tiger liles—most gorgeous 
of all. A breath from Aunt Cindy’s garden would 
cause the famed perfumes of Araby to grow faint 
with envy; its glowing loveliness, glimpsed across 
Uncle Ben’s sun-dappled, velvet-smooth lawn, 
was a vision to delight the eye of the passerby and 
refreshment for a jaded soul. 

The kitchen garden once more functioned as 
such, and here Barbara Ann had her own little 
plot, which she cultivated so assiduously that the 
infant vegetables had slight chance of reaching 
maturity. She did, however, succeed the second 
season in raising some early June peas, quite 
enough for a “mess”; and they were the very best 
peas that Uncle Ben ever ate—he said so himself! 

The summer house was left untouched, beyond 
clearing the doorway and reinforcing the frame- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


81 


work, which had begun to protest at its weight of 
greenery; and all through her girlhood this re¬ 
mained Barbara’s favorite retreat, a chamber of 
rejoicing on golden days, a shelter in times of 
stress and storm. 

But it was inside the house, after all, that the 
old order had changed most completely. There 
was a furnace now, and a bath. Installing the 
former necessitated some changes in the chim¬ 
neys, in course of which the workmen had found a 
bricked-up fireplace in the parlor, and another 
on the settin’-room side. Instead of having the 
masking bricks replaced, Aunt Cindy plunged into 
sheer iconoclasm. A parlor, in Aunt Cindy’s ex¬ 
perience, was a place to be aired and dusted about 
once in so often, but which was never found other¬ 
wise than airless and dusty when occasion arose 
for its use. Luckily these occasions were not 
many; a funeral, a wedding, a call from the minis¬ 
ter or his wife, or some social affair of great for¬ 
mality. It did seem a pity to keep the pleasant¬ 
est room in the house closed and idle, set apart 
for such inconsiderable use. It would probably 
be quite a few years before it would be needed for 
Barbara’s wedding, Aunt Cindy reflected and she 
hoped it would be longer still before it was re¬ 
quired for a funeral. Social affairs there should 
be in plenty, but not formal ones; and as for Mr. 
and Mrs. Seabrooke, they were quite apt to come 
’cross-lots from the rectory, he in muddy boots, 
to ask Uncle Ben’s opinion of some new fishing 
tackle, and she to beg Grandma’s recipe for 
molasses cookies; for that the back door was much 
handier. 

So really there didn’t seem to be so very much 
need for a parlor, and as such Aunt Cindy ban- 


82 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


ished it for all time—an act almost amounting to 
sedition—in the eighties! 

Nearly thirty feet long, and with windows on 
three sides, the room in which Barbara had been 
wont to gaze in awe upon the lady of the tomb¬ 
stone, the wax fruit, and the hair wreath, became 
the very heart of the home; the family living-room. 
The aforementioned works of art, also the black- 
and-red calico, Aunt Cindy sent down to Hepzibah 
House to Aunt Annameel; for she herself would 
never be able to sleep with them in the house, she 
said, not even in the farthest, darkest corner of 
the attic! 

And here in the parlor-that-was, Uncle Ben 
built rows of book-shelves, shoulder high. The old 
“secretary” stood close by one window, and the 
“square” piano made itself an unobtrusive as 
might be, near another. Barbara thought it 
strange to have it turn its back to the room that 
way; Cousin Mary Lane’s, and Jimmy’s mother’s, 
and Mis’ Cap’n Sickles’, which were all the pianos 
of her acquaintance, were each backed firmly up 
against the wall, but Aunt Cindy, who wasn’t 
especially musical, said she disliked to have even 
a piano show its teeth at her; besides, you got a 
better light from the window this way, in case you 
wanted to play on it—which really is wliat a piano 
is for, of course. 

Easy chairs were drawn before the fireplace, a 
broad couch with bright cushions near-by. There 
was a footstool for Grandma Ferriss, a rug for 
Ethel; the hearth-rug, really—but Ethel con¬ 
sidered it his own, and resented the intrusion of 
alien feet. Under the soft-shaded lamp on Great- 
grandma Ferriss’ gate-leg table, Aunt Cindy’s 
work basket and Barbara’s school books hob- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


83 


nobbed with the evening paper, “The Century” 
and ‘ ‘ Harper’s Bazaar. ’ ’ 

The old sitting-room was made a dining-room, 
with a grate fitted in to the fireplace to burn coal; 
by the same progression, the former dining-room 
became the kitchen, a big sunny room in which you 
actually could swing a cat, if you wanted to. The 
old kitchen was a tucked-up little place, a lean-to 
reached by a step down from the rest of the house, 
and Aunt Cindy watched gloatingly while Uncle 
Ben and Mr. Murphy demolished it, building in its 
place a wide latticed porch, whither she might 
take the potatoes to pare or peas to shell on warm 
summer days, or hang clothes to dry in bad 
weather. 

For that ‘ ‘ step down, ’ ’ of course, was a step up 
as well, when you went the other way. Aunt 
Cindy didn’t blame the builder so much, she said, 
he was probably a man and therefore didn’t know 
any better; but to think that three generations of 
Ferriss women, supposedly intelligent, had meekly 
clambered up and down an eight-inch step forty 
times a day for nobody knew how many years— 
it made her ashamed of the breed. First Madam 
Ferriss, for whom the house was built; then her 
daughter-in-law, now Grandma Ferriss; and 
finally Aunt Annameel and even Aunt Cindy her¬ 
self, and nobody ever doing anything about it! 
Aunt Cindy hadn’t minded it so much when she 
was younger ; it had always been there, you see, 
and one can get used to almost anything in time. 
But after fifteen years’ absence she found she 
must get used to it all over again, and like the 
immortal Tupman, “I am too old, sir!” she said 
to Uncle Ben, “and if that is not enough, I am 
too fat!” 


84 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Not that Aunt Cindy really was old or fat, of 
course; she wasn’t old a bit, nor either too fat or 
too thin, but just right, and wholly delightful in 
every respect. 

4 ‘The chambers,” as Grandma Ferriss called 
the rooms above, were likewise made spic and 
span with fresh paint, airy curtains and pretty 
chintz. And Barbara Ann had her own little room 
all in pink and white, the very pride of her heart, 
and Aunt Cindy had taught her to care for it her¬ 
self. Barbara was learning to cook, too. Long 
before she was eight, she could make toast, all 
crisp and golden brown; boil the eggs for break¬ 
fast exactly as Uncle Ben liked them, and bake 
apples and potatoes to fluffy perfection. She 
could make apple-sauce, too, and a few simple pud¬ 
dings—rice ‘n’ raisins with hard sauce, you know, 
and bread pudding with m’rang. Barbara’s 
m’rang was almost as good as Grandma’s, though 
it was so hard to beat the egg-whites stiff enough, 
and sometimes Aunt Cindy had to help her about 
that. And Aunt Cindy had promised to teach her 
how to make gingerbread next! 

But you mustn’t think it was all work and no 
play for Barbara Ann. No, indeed it wasn’t. The 
arbor and the summer-house, the grassy yard and 
the big roomy porch, were the scene of many a 
childish revel, Kitty Breen her closest friend still, 
and Jimmy, whose surname Barbara now knew to 
be Landridge instead of Language, her devoted 
squire. And when winter came there was Aunt 
Cindy’s bright kitchen made brighter still by the 
happy faces of little children—ah, the joy of win¬ 
ter nights-after-school, and steaming cocoa, and 
bread ‘n’ butter with sugar on! Saturday after- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


85 


noons there would be candy-pulls, and popping 
corn, or if there happened to be snow, “jack-wax” 
made from the maple syrup that Great-uncle Han- 
chell sent Grandma every spring from his farm 
“up York State!” 

Seldom was there much snow in that region— 
at least not until the famous blizzard of ’88. That 
was something to wonder at, to brag about, to 
remember in after years. For half a century to 
come, every big snowstorm would be compared 
with this, and those of us who romped and 
frolicked through those mountainous drifts would 
scorn the puny affairs they call ‘ ‘ blizzards ’ ’ nowa¬ 
days. Three days Barbara stayed indoors, watch¬ 
ing and listening to the raging, whirling, scream¬ 
ing white tempest without. There was no milk, 
and the card in the window which summoned the 
baker’s wagon w T ent quite unheeded; but Aunt 
Cindy rose superbly to the occasion, and evolved 
most delectable dishes out of what foodstuffs hap¬ 
pened to be in the house. Luckily there was plenty 
of fuel, and how jolly and cozy it was to sit cross- 
legged on the rug before a blazing fire in the 
living-room, with Ethel curled up all soft and 
cuddly in one’s lap, while big red apples sizzled 
on the hearth, and Uncle Ben told stories of other 
days and other storms! Uncle Ben was a wonder¬ 
ful story-teller, and even Grandma Ferriss was 
moved to reminiscences of that other blizzard in 
’59, or was it ’57 ? 

And when the storm was over and the sun came 
out, and people began to dig themselves out of 
their own front yards, that was when the real 
sport began for Barbara and her cohorts. As 
soon as ever Jimmy could get down from the hill 


86 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


he and Barbara held high carnival with shovel and 
broom; Kitty, poor child, having hit upon this, 
of all others, as a propitious time to have the 
measles, and though she wasn’t very sick, she 
couldn’t even watch the fun from the windows, 
‘ ‘ on account of her eyes, ’ ’ you know. 

Having first built themselves a commodious 
igloo in the kitchen garden almost exactly like 
the ones in the “ Jography,” they next constructed 
a flight of snow steps to the top of the back fence, 
where they stood as on the heights of Darien, sur¬ 
veying both the Atlantic of the Ferriss yard and 
the Pacific of the Smiths’, which abutted on the 
rear. The Smith children—the little Smith girl’s 
name was Thankful Cordelia Jennie May Smith, 
and her brother was called Willie—had an ambi¬ 
tious project under way, being nothing less than 
a three-story house with bay windows and a man¬ 
sard roof. But having discovered the small ex¬ 
plorers on the fence-top, they abandoned it for 
the time being, and built themselves a stairway to 
meet that of Jimmy and Barbara. Soon both 
premises came to display much statuary of men 
and beasts, besides a system of trenches and dug- 
outs that would have put a Von Hindenburg to 
shame, and where many a hard battle was fought, 
mostly with hand grenades. 

But snow will melt in mid-March sunshine, how¬ 
ever deep it may lie; so at last it was all gone, 
and there was that delicious earth smell. Before 
you knew it robins were everywhere, lawns were 
all tender green, and the locust trees were bud¬ 
ding. Then spring became summer without any¬ 
body seeing how or when it -was done; the trees 
were in full leaf, Aunt Cindy’s garden began to 


ANANIAS ' DAUGHTER 


87 


don its Joseph's coat, and the long vacation really 
and truly did begin at last, though it had seemed 
as if it never, never would. 

Jimmy and his gang affected great supercilious¬ 
ness toward girls these days; even Barbara he 
bespoke somewhat churlishly when there was a 
crowd around, to which she responded in kind; 
hut in the main their friendship endured even 
though the fellows called him ‘ 1 Laura'' because of 
it. This, however, they were careful to do only 
in his absence, since the day he licked Eddie 
Cowles and compelled him, with his mouth full of 
mud, to say “Jim" three separate and more or 
less distinct times. 

This new “Jim" rather fancied himself as an 
all-around badrnan, and took no pains to conceal 
his true and desperate character, especially from 
the little girls. To Barbara one day he remarked 
casually, his off-hand manner but thinly veiling a 
most unholy pride in his lawlessness—“Say, Bobs, 
y' know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna learn to 
swear like Ban Hendrickson! I know some words 
a'ready; want to hear me say ’em?" 

Barbara's horror was quite genuine, though 
perhaps if it hadn't been for ole Peter K-naps- 
kittle—well, I can’t say. You see, there was a 
tradition in the third grade at school, that if you 
said bad words ole Peter K-napskittle came for 
you at night and carried you off to his tumble- 
down shanty by the river. Old Peter was a scis¬ 
sors grinder by trade, and kept ringing a bell as 
he crouched along, bent almost double by the 
weight of the grindstone on his back. It was whis¬ 
pered that if he caught you saying bad words, he 
would grind your tongue upon that self-same 
wheel, just as he did your mother's knives and 


88 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


shears. Of course when you got to be sixth grade 
or thereabouts you knew that his name really was 
Rafferty, that the many, many children swarming 
about his shanty were all young Raffertys; and 
that he was a kindly old fellow who liked to smoke 
his pipe and read the paper in his stocking feet 
when his day’s work was done. 

But Jimmy—“Huh! Think I’m scairt of that 
ole Peter K-napskittle? Like to see him try to 
catch me! Listen here: ‘ Ogosh, Ogosh, Gotell, 
Billybedam—’ ” 

What depths of blasphemy Jimmy might have 
reached will never be known, for in the distance, 
unmistakably clear and coming nearer, was the 
sound of old Peter’s big brass bell. 4 4 Run, Jimmy, 
run! ’ ’ screamed Barbara; and Jimmy—ran. 

That summer all the “fellers”—and that in¬ 
cluded such girls as were not utterly outside the 
pale—had nicknames original and appropriate. 
Not to have an extra moniker for the exclusive 
use of your most “nintimate” friends was to be 
hopelessly out of date, as unthinkable, almost, as 
marbles in November; you may be sure no clan in 
all Red Haven outdid Jimmy and his henchmen. 
Kitty Breen was Kitty no more, except to outland- 
ers like her mother and her Uncle Tim, and the 
kids around on Maple Avenue; to the inner circle 
of her friends she was Hully Jacups, which seemed 
to have a sort of chubby sound, and so to fit her 
admirably. Barbara now was “ Wizzy-bone,”— 
a vague suggestion of legs long and slender, not 
to say skinny; and Thankful Cordelia Jennie May 
Smith shook off these cumbersome entitlements 
for the more elegant “Countess of Cork”—Cork 
being a place highly thought of by Kitty’s Uncle 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


89 


Tim, and a countess, as everybody knows, being a 
very fine lady indeed, almost like a queen, besides 
sounding better with Cork; so Thankful, etc., 
ought to have been satisfied, and was, except for 
a disquieting impression about old bottles. 

The brother of this noble lady, yclept Willie 
aforetime, now accorded the sissy diminutive 
naught but contempt, answering only to the name 
of “Bull”; not because of his physique, which was 
rather more on the order of a shad’s, but because 
of that famous one called “Sitting,” the hero of 
the ages to Willie Smith! 

It is painful to relate that Jimmy, the boss of 
the gang, must go down to posterity as “Waffles.” 
Once upon a time, at a church supper, he had con¬ 
sumed fourteen of these toothsome delicacies, 
acquiring at once a nickname and a reputation. 
He didn’t mind the reputation, but would have 
liked something a trifle more heroic in the way of 
a nickname. ‘ 1 Devil Dave ’ ’ would have answered 
admirably, or Hawkeye, or Chingachgook, which 
he pronounced Chinkachook; but it didn’t matter 
about that, because the fellows just wouldn’t call 
him anything but “Waffles,” anyway. 

This was the aggregation that loafed, Micawber- 
like, in the arbor one hot August afternoon. It 
being decided that their lack of initiative was due 
to a corresponding lack of nourishment, Wizzy- 
bone was delegated to explore Aunt Cindy’s cooky 
jar. With her return the general ennui at once 
took flight, for not only did she bring cookies—two 
for each—but in the pocket of her apron reposed 
a perfectly good goldfish—dead, quite dead. 
“And we can have a really fun’rail” she cried, 
excitedly. 

The children crowded around to look and listen. 


90 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


It seems the goldfish had died of sunstroke. Aunt 
Cindy had found him floating in the globe, which 
stood near a window in a blaze of westering sun, 
just as Barbara arrived on her quest for cookies; 
and having no further use for the finny corpse, 
she told Barbara to take it out in the garden and 
bury it. 

Immediately the listless crew was galvanized 
into action. The “ really fun’ral” was soon under 
way and a most impressive one it was, with Bull 
Smith’s wheelbarrow for the hearse and a match¬ 
box for a coffin. The coffin was rather a tight 
squeeze, inasmuch as Mr. Waffles, the undertaker, 
had to bend the tail of the deceased in order to 
make him fit; but the hearse was very roomy 
indeed. 

Some slight difficulty arose over the burial serv¬ 
ice, and discussion waxed loud and shrill; was it 
wicked, or wasn’t it, to say prayers about a fish? 
Finally the ayes had it and there were no prayers; 
but Bull was permitted to preach a sermon, and 
did so most eloquently: 

“Dearly b’loved brethren, isn’t it a sin 

To eat baked potatoes and throw away the skin? 

For the skins would feed the pigs, and the pigs 
would feed you; 

Dearly b ’loved brethren, isn’t that true ? ’ ’ 

They selected a cool spot in the shade of the 
summer-house for the grave, and erected a tomb¬ 
stone made of a shingle, inscribed by their united 
efforts: 

“Here lies Mr. Fish, who died of the heat; 

We bury him deeply, so Ethel can’t eat.” 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


91 


Then the girls made wreaths of flowers, and 
pillows, and a heart, though Hully Jacups did 
think that was too much like valentines. By then 
it was suppertime, and the mourners departed, 44 a 
pleasant time having been had by all,” as the Red 
Haven Weekly Courier might have put it. 

Very early next morning, however, all were on 
hand once more—Hully Jacups, and WJaffles, and 
the Smiths, both the Countess and the Bull—to 
gaze upon the new-made grave; drawn, perhaps, 
by the same sinister influence which is said to be 
the undoing of many an actual malefactor. It 
followed as night follows sunset that the little 
ghouls must disinter the interesting remains, to 
see how 44 they” had withstood the ordeal. 

Whoo-woop! Hey! Jim-minny Crismus! 
44 Remains,’ ’ forsooth! 4 4 The late ’ ’ Mr. Fish was, 
in fact, so very much alive that when the matchbox 
coffin was opened, out he flopped on the grass, and 
thrashed about right energetically, considering 
what he had been through! 

Then did Undertaker Waffles prove himself a 
man of initiative and action, in spite of his un¬ 
heroic nickname. Seizing the gasping ex-corpse, 
he led the shrieking mourners in a mad dash for 
the aquarium. The race with death was won by a 
nose—the fish’s—which entered the water, fol¬ 
lowed instantly by its body, just in time to ward 
off a second funeral, a permanent one this time! 

Alas, it was no miracle; the explanation was 
simple. The fish hadn’t really been dead when 
Aunt Cindy took it from the water, and the cool 
earth, the depth of the grave, and a shower in the 
night, all contributed to its recovery. But ever 
after, until it finally died of old age or indigestion 
or whatever it was, that fish swam backward be- 


92 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


cause of an injury to its tail, caused by being 
crowded into an undersized coffin on the occasion 
of its premature burial! 

Thus with games and laughter the weeks sped 
by, and summer waned, and came autumn—the 
autumn of a Presidential election. We were fierce¬ 
ly partisan in those days. Friendships cracked 
and broke under the strain. If you were a Re¬ 
publican you joined hands with other Republicans, 
and while you stepped backward and forward 
facing a line of little Democrats in similar forma¬ 
tion, you chanted to a jingling tune a verse that 
ran something like this: 

‘ ‘ The train is coming around the bend, 
Good-bye, ole Grover, good-bye! 

It’s loaded down with Harrison men, 
Good-bye, ole Grover, good-bye!” 

Or if you chanced to be an adherent of the 
Honorable Mr. Cleveland you would make flippant 
inquiry as to your opponents headgear, thus: 

4 ‘Where dijja get that hat! 

Where dijja get that tile! 

Isn’t it a nobby one! 

It’s just the proper style! 

I should like to have one 

Just the same as that; 

Where e’er I’d go they’d shout ‘Hello! 

Where dijja get that hat!’ ” 

There also were certain comparisons between 
the Republican party and the tails of puppy-dogs 


ANANIAS* DAUGHTER 


93 


and sundry remarks concerning “rats and cats” 
and ‘ ‘ Demmycrats ’ ’ which were very opprobrious 
and insulting. Finally, vituperation failing, you 
always could make snoots at each other. Kitty 
made beautiful snoots, her little tip-tilted nose 
lending itself admirably to this form of warfare. 

Kitty being a Democrat and Jimmy a Republi¬ 
can, Barbara Ann was torn by loyalty to both, until 
she found that Uncle Ben was a Republican, which 
of course left her no choice in the matter. 

And, ah! The torchlight processions, becoming 
ever bigger and more brilliant as the great day 
approached, each party striving to outdo the 
other! They were the real thing, those parades. 
None of your tame modern affairs with a mud- 
gutter band and one transparency. These were 
led by real bands in gay uniforms, and the parad- 
ers swung along to the warlike strains of ‘ ‘ March¬ 
ing Through Georgia,” “John Brown’s Body,” 
and “The Red, White, and Blue.” Never would 
Barbara hear these stirring old tunes without see¬ 
ing again the long lines of citizens in silk hats and 
fluttering badges; even as the strains of “Tip¬ 
perary” and “Over There” will bring to the 
minds of a later generation a vision of lean, shaven 
youth in khaki, marching with smiling lips and 
squared jaws, on to the Great Adventure. 

In those less heroic processions of *88, every 
other man carried a flaming torch, and every so- 
many rows there was red fire, or green, lighting 
the scene with a lurid glow. Transparencies 
bobbed high above the glossy hats; here and there 
were great silken banners and always at the very 
beginning a huge flag rippled its stars and stripes 
to the autumn breeze, a signal for lusty cheers re¬ 
echoing along the line of march. Thrilled to the 


94 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


marrow, Barbara and her friends cheered and 
shouted with the rest; a parade was a parade, 
regardless of party affiliations. 

But at last came the Tuesday after the first 
Monday in November, and Mr. Harrison was 
President Harrison, and Mr. Cleveland went 
fishing. You made friends with your erstwhile 
political enemies—“got glad again” was the way 
you phrased it; and there was nothing to look for¬ 
ward to but the interminable stretch of days till 
Thanksgiving, followed after another intermin¬ 
able stretch of days, by Christmas and its week of 
holiday fun. 


VIII 


‘‘Hey, Bobs, c’mon go crabbing!” 

Jimmy, barefoot, basket in hand, “scalp net” 
over his shoulder, bounded up to the kitchen door 
as Barbara Ann wrung out the last dish towel and 
hung it on the rack. “Can’t she, Aunt Cindy? 
The tide’ll be just right now.” 

“We-ell—want to, Barbara ? You can help me 
this afternoon instead, if you’d rather.” 

Barbara flew for net and lines, pausing only to 
hug Aunt Cindy delightedly. 

“ So long, then, Aunt Cindy! O-ho! Crabs for 
supper tonight! Mmm-m! ’ ’ Jimmy hinted open¬ 
ly and with perfect confidence. Always, when he 
and Barbara went crabbing, their catch came un¬ 
divided into Aunt Cindy’s kitchen, and Jimmy 
stayed to supper. Jimmy’s mother would have 
no dealings with crabs, dead or alive; horrid 
messy things they were, and their claws—ugh! 

“See that you bring plenty, then!” laughed 
Aunt Cindy as the two disappeared river-ward, 
Jimmy’s eager voice floating back—“I’ve found a 
new place, Bobs, a dandy! Gee, but they’re 
thick! ... ” Aunt Cindy smiled, and then 

sighed, the smile still curving her lips. Such a 
little little while for them to be children together 
and afterward—who can tell? 

But no “afterward” troubled Jimmy’s 
thoughts, nor Barbara’s, as they sought the new 
crabbing ground above the boat-house. They set 
their lines, a chunk of meat and a sinker on each, 

95 


96 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


and watched for the sudden tautening which 
meant that one of the scuttling tribe below had 
started home with the bacon. Then the cautious 
pulling in: 4 ‘Gosh, this one’s a whale! Don’t let 
him get away—easy, now! ’ ’ And when the queer 
brute, still clinging hopefully to its dinner, was 
just beneath the surface, a sudden scoop with the 
net, and there you were! Of course, an occasional 
victim, more temperamental than the rest, would 
take fright and resign the bait; sometimes both 
bait and crab would be missing; but for all that, 
Jimmy’s observations as to the rightness of the 
tide and the dandiness of the new place were so 
nearly correct that the big splint market basket 
was full long before dinner-time. 

Proudly the two carried home their catch to be 
exclaimed over by Aunt Cindy, who if she loathed 
the horrid, messy things or feared their pinches, 
gave no sign, but went gaily about preparing for 
the feast. “Supper at six, Jim!” she called after 
him as he started home. 

Jimmy grinned. “Don’t you worry—I’ll be 
right there in that chair when the whistle blows! 
Gonna have ’em devilled, Aunt Cindy V 9 

He liked that—Aunt Cindy calling him Jim, that 
way, just as if he were twenty, instead of twelve. 
It made his chest feel all kinda swelled up, and 
little shivers to run up and down his back. Aunt 
Cindy always knew, somehow, the way to talk to a 
feller. His mother, now, always called him James; 
he adored his mother, of course, but he would 
cheerfully have died for Aunt Cindy. 

“Crabbing” was an ever-popular river sport 
in the set to which Jimmy and Barbara belonged. 
Sometimes they went en masse and made a day 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


97 


of it, the big covered baskets going to the river 
laden with lunch, which, having been consumed 
to the uttermost fragment, would give place to a 
return cargo of rattling, rasping crustaceans. On 
these occasions Aunt Cindy went along, with 
usually another grown-up or two to share the 
responsibility. They would seek a certain shady 
spot near the 6 ‘ sand bar, ’ ’ and the elders and per¬ 
haps some of the little girls would begin arrange¬ 
ments for lunch, while the rest, barefoot, scattered 
to set the lines. As soon as the baskets were filled, 
the boys would retire to a deep cove around the 
point, bathing suits being conspicuous by their 
absence among the male youth of that age; indeed, 
had one of their number appeared among his 
fellows clad in such an effeminate garment, he cer¬ 
tainly would have been mobbed and the badge of 
his sissyhood torn from him pronto. 

So to their sheltered swimmin’ hole they hied, 
their splashings attended by shouts and wild hilar¬ 
ity ; the girls meanwhile disrobing in a leafy bower 
near the picnic ground, and very quaint indeed 
were the costumes which presently disported 
themselves in the shallower water of the sand bar. 
Barbara’s had been evolved from an old blue 
flannel shirt of Uncle Ben’s, by the simple expedi¬ 
ent of cutting off the sleeves and fastening the 
tails together at the bottom, leaving an aperture 
for each slender leg. Kitty’s costume consisted of 
one of her own little red flannel petticoats but¬ 
toned to an underwaist; while Ethel Harbie, the 
aristocrat of the crowd (she lived next door to 
Jimmy, in one of those pretentious modern dwell¬ 
ings with a Queen Anne front and a Mary Ann 
rear )—Ethel had a regular bathing suit, bloomers 


98 ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 

and all, made from an old purple silk dress of her 
mother’s. 

That is, it was purple when she donned it. for 
the first time, proudly displaying its perfections 
to her envious mates in their makeshift garb; but 
when she emerged from the water a half-hour 
later—alack! Gone was its regal hue, perished 
its splendor! It was of the earth, earthy; in color 
not unlike the mud churned up by the paddle- 
wheels of the “Sea Bird” at low tide—a dirty 
reddish brown. For the remainder of the season 
Ethel’s bathing suit led a chameleon-like exist¬ 
ence, taking on new and dingier tints with each 
successive dip in the salt water, a mortification to 
its wearer and a warning to the vainglorious. 

The bathing hour lasted until lunchtime, leav¬ 
ing the narrowest possible margin for dressing 
operations, which luckily were not elaborate. 
Then with wet hair and shining faces they sat 
about under the trees and ate sandwiches and 
yet more sandwiches; sometimes they had frank¬ 
furters skewered in close formation along a sharp¬ 
ened stick, like fringe, and roasted over a camp¬ 
fire. They tasted slightly smoky, to be sure, and 
were apt to be charred at the lower end; but what 
broiled quail, what canvasback, what chicken a la 
King of later years could equal them for delicious¬ 
ness ! 

And after that there would be cake and yet 
more cake, and lemonade or homemade root beer, 
which Barbara didn’t like because it tasted like 
mucilage. And the boys would tease the girls to 
hear them squeal, and climbed trees and ran races 
and turned summersaults and handsprings solely 
for their own amusement, turning never an eye 
nor more than one ear to the feminine admiration 



ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


99 


all about them; till suddenly someone would dis¬ 
cover a crab basket overthrown, its quondam 
prisoners scuttling off sidewise in all directions. 
By the time they were corralled and secured, some 
grown-up would look at a watch—and the sport 
would be over till another day. 

The walk home was ever a prancing procession, 
from which small detachments dropped off at this 
gate and that corner, till only Jimmy was left with 
Barbara and Aunt Cindy. Then the crabs must 
be prepared for supper. You simply dropped 
them into boiling water, you know, until the dun 
shells turned a vivid scarlet. Barbara didn’t like 
to see that, so Jim used to jab his knife into a cer¬ 
tain place at the edge of the shell, and after that 
the crabs didn’t seem to mind being boiled. 

Fishing, too, was good in this tide-water river, 
and Barbara learned to manage Jim’s old flat- 
bottomed rowboat as well as any of the boys. 
Aunt Cindy had some misgivings, and would have 
vetoed fishing from the boat if it hadn’t been for 
Uncle Ben. 

“Better let her learn to row,” he advised; 4 ‘it’s 
good exercise, and a ducking won’t hurt her.” 

“But Barbara can’t swim!” Aunt Cindy 
objected. 

“That’s easily remedied!” laughed Uncle Ben. 
“Besides, Jimmy can.” 

“Jimmy! That boy!” 

“There now, Cindy, don’t you worry. Barbara 
isn’t ever going to drown with Ghat boy’ around. 
He can swim like an eel; water is the same as air 
to him; and the river isn’t deep, anyway. ’ ’ 

“I know; but in case of an accident—even 
grown men sometimes lose their heads—” 


100 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


“Jimmy won’t. Why, Cindy, can’t you see? 
The boy doesn’t know it, but he’d go through fire 
for Barbara. Now don’t worry—” 

So Aunt Cindy didn’t, very much; but Barbara 
did get her ducking. Then, ‘ ‘ I told you so! ” from 
Aunt Cindy, and simultaneously, 4 ‘ I told you so! ” 
from Uncle Ben. 

It was all the fault of that big old grandfather 
eel that lived under the flat rock above the Bol¬ 
tons ’ private landing. All summer .the children 
had fed him toothsome morsels in the way of bait, 
which he would remove from their hooks with 
uncanny skill; till he grew fat and lazy and care¬ 
less, and Barbara hooked him at last. But to land 
him—ah, that was another matter! In the excite¬ 
ment the boat was capsized and the children 
thrown into the water—not very deep, to be sure, 
but the tide being in, it was well over their young 
heads. Jim made an instant grab at Barbara, only 
to feel her sleeve slip from his grasp. Never in 
his life had he been so frightened. All the grace¬ 
ful, daring feats of which as a swimmer he was so 
proud, were as though he never had heard of, 
much less practised them. He forgot how to dive. 
But somehow, clumsily, splashily, he reached Bar¬ 
bara and brought her to the surface, choking and 
sputtering, almost as soon as the water had closed 
above her head. Then he towed her ashore, and 
they streaked for home and Aunt Cindy as fast as 
their legs could fly, showering all and sundry as 
they ran with salt drops from their drenched 
clothing. 

It didn’t occur to Jimmy to leave Barbara at 
the gate. He marched with her into Aunt Cindy’s 
presence, explaining not too coherently—Bar¬ 
bara’s teeth chattered so she couldn’t help much— 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


101 


and leaning rather heavily on the eel in the matter 
of blame. Aunt Cindy hadn’t time to listen, any¬ 
way, and while Barbara was being hustled into 
dry garments, Jimmy went to meet Uncle Ben, 
just turning in at the gate. Again the boy re¬ 
counted the incident, without undue emphasis on 
his own part as rescuer, and waited manfully 
enough for whatever might be in store for him in 
the way of censure or reproof. 

“Say, Jim,” came unexpectedly from Uncle 
Ben, “why don’t you teach Barbara to swim!” 

“Wh-why, I’d be g-glad to!” Jimmy stuttered 
in his relief, “—if you’d like me to—and Aunt 
Cindy! ’ ’ 

Uncle Ben, it appeared, would like it, and so 
would Aunt Cindy, after she and Uncle Ben had 
talked it over. So it was arranged that the lessons 
were to begin at the bathing beach down by- the 
steamboat landing, as soon as a conventional bath¬ 
ing suit could be made for Barbara Ann; which 
reminded Jimmy that his own customary swim¬ 
ming garb would hardly do, either! 

In winter there was skating, and fishing through 
the ice, and shouting one’s-self hoarse at the ice¬ 
boat races—thrilling contests in which great 
winged sleds flew over the ice with the speed of 
the wind. How Jimmy longed to pilot one! 
Though with the coming of spring his thoughts 
were all of the “cat” he hoped to own some day, 
gleaming white as to paint and mainsail, its 
interior a marvel of polished wood and shining 
brass. 

Thus the two swam and romped and skated into 
their teens, in the sexless companionship of that 
less precocious day, and always it was Barbara 


102 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


with Jimmy, and always Jimmy with Barbara. 
When other hoys and girls paired off in this man¬ 
ner, unmerciful “joshing” was the best they could 
expect at the hands of ribald youth; but all their 
world took Barbara and Jimmy quite as a matter 
of course. They were chums at fourteen, as they 
had been at seven; and for all any one knew or 
cared, would be the same good pals at forty, pro¬ 
vided both lived to such advanced age, bordering 
on senility and decay! 

Came a time when Jimmy had to leave the choir 
at St. Barnabas’, following one awful Sunday 
when his voice cracked hideously and unexpected¬ 
ly on a too-high note in the ‘‘ Gloria in Excelsis. ’ ’ 
Mrs. Landridge was dreadfully mortified, and 
blamed Mr. Nichols—“Old Nick,” in the affection¬ 
ate disrespect of his boys—for not having taken 
James out sooner. Jimmy himself was totally 
unmoved. He wasn’t a bit sorry to be out of the 
choir, for the time formerly wasted in rehearsals 
was thus made available for work on his new cat- 
boat, now an accomplished fact. 

By dint of rigorous parsimony in the matter of 
his allowance, supplemented by the proceeds of a 
season as errand boy for Mr. Krauss, the butcher, 
nights-after-school and Saturdays, Jimmy had 
contrived to buy Bancroft Hendrickson’s boat. 
Ban was going away to college in the fall, and was 
tired of a sailboat anyway. He wanted one of 
those new power launches such as he had seen at 
Barnagat the previous summer; they would go 
four or five knots an hour, and all you had to do 
was to start the engine and steer! 

So Jimmy and his “side kick,” Amory Booth, 
spent long hours scraping, calking, painting, 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


103 


polishing and otherwise furbishing the erstwhile 
‘ 4 Whitecap,’’ rechristened “Lucinda Jane”— 
Barbara broke a ketchup bottle of Aunt Cindy’s 
dandelion wine over the newly painted name, the 
day they “got her over.” Lucinda Jane was a 
boat to be proud of—glistening white to the water 
line, sea green below; though as to sail, she was 
hardly the white-winged fairy boat of Jimmy’s 
dreams. Ban Hendrickson had sailed her in fair 
weather and foul, for a matter of four or five 
seasons, but with the sun upon her—ah, she was a 
beauty, and Captain Jim the happiest old salt on 
the Shrewsbury. His speech took on a distinctly 
nautical flavor. Noon was eight bells, now; wind 
and storm became a blow, a squall, or a nor’easter; 
starboard and port, boom and gaff, forestay and 
bowsprit, cockpit and helm, rolled glibly from his 
tongue; he even had been heard to demand, on 
occasion, the shivering of his timbers! 

But for all these outward and visible signs of 
expert seamanship as applied to navigating a cat- 
boat, Barbara wasn’t allowed to sail with Jimmy 
the first season. Aunt Cindy was adamant ; in¬ 
deed, not until two whole summers had passed, 
and Barbara’s growing skill as a swimmer had 
made her practically amphibious, would she con¬ 
sent, and then only on condition that they promise 
never to venture out into the bay, but to confine 
their voyagings exclusively to the comparative 
safety of the river. Nor could Jimmy coax Aunt 
Cindy herself to set foot aboard her precious 
namesake. She did not doubt that drowning was 
an easy death; her only fear, she said, was that it 
might prove too easy! 


IX 


Barbara, meanwhile, was growing from a leggy 
youngster into a tall, slender girl, very sweet and 
winsome, though aside from a shapely nose which 
she secretly admired, she had little actual beauty 
of feature. Her mouth was too wide, with no 
slightest hint of a cupid’s bow, and by all the 
canons of romance one’s mouth must be a cupid’s 
bow even though one couldn’t have large violet 
eyes, and hair of burnished gold. Barbara’s hair 
was brown; warmly, duskily brown, to be sure, but 
undeniably brown; her eyes also, but with little 
flecks of gold in the iris, and an imp of laughter 
seeming ever to lurk in their depths, prepared at 
the slightest provocation to leap over into that 
deep and whimsical dimple in her left cheek. 

Barbara’s chin was too prominent for beauty, 
and her eyebrows, she complained, weren’t mates; 
but for all these defects she was what the “fel¬ 
lows” of her day characterized as “a reg’lar 
peach”—the girls, perhaps, being somewhat less 
enthusiastic; while their elders declared approv¬ 
ingly that she “had no nonsense about her.” 

And she hadn’t. All through the years when 
little girls are growing to be big girls, and do a 
great deal of whispering and giggling about the 
little boys who are growing to be big boys, Bar¬ 
bara Ann remained a little girl at heart, though 
her mind grew and broadened and her body de¬ 
veloped as a normal, healthy girl’s should. . . . 

And then one day she grew up. 

It was Easter morning, and Barbara was six- 

104 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


105 


teen. The little gray-stone church was filled with 
the joyous lilt of Easter music, the colorful fra¬ 
grance of Easter bloom. Golden daffodils shed 
their radiance like tall candles upon the altar—St. 
Barnabas’ wasn’t ‘ 4 high” enough for real candles 
in those days; and even in the pews the floral dis¬ 
play was not to be disdained, massed in gay pro¬ 
fusion on the ladies’ hats and pinned to their 
gowns—a garden that literally had blossomed 
overnight, for those were the days when Easter 
garments were for Easter, and we wore our winter 
dresses and coats and velvet hats up to the very 
night before, regardless of the weather; and then 
with the dawn of Easter day, come rain or shine, 
snow or hail, we burst into bloom, utterly dazzling 
the eye attuned to the drab of Lenten sackcloth. 

Miss Emily Rossiter, we remember, always ap¬ 
peared at church on Good Friday clad in the deep¬ 
est of mourning, but most correct and fashionable 
mourning, you may be sure, sable-hued to the last 
pin. A “crape” veil of prodigious length 
shrouded her to the knees; a breastpin of dull jet 
fastened her collar; at intervals during the service 
she wept into a black-bordered handkerchief; 
. . . and now behold her hat of lilac straw with 

its wreath of velvet pansies that matched her 
gown; her white gloves, her amethyst brooch, the 
sweet peas, Stafford’s choicest and best, at her 
girdle—a great eye for color had Miss Emily 
Rossiter! 

Barbara wore violets, Jimmy’s gift, and was 
like a flower herself, garbed as befitted sixteen on 
Easter morning. Even Uncle Ben felt the influ¬ 
ence of the day, and had added a deep red carna¬ 
tion to the holiday splendor of “Prince Albert” 
and tall silk hat. 


106 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


This service marked Jimmy’s return to the 
choir after his enforced absence, and lavishly had 
he justified their hopes of him. His voice, a dear 
baritone, behaved perfectly, and would gain in 
strength and resonance as it matured. Uncle 
Ben and Aunt Cindy rivaled Mrs. Landridge in 
pride of possession; wasn’t Jimmy 4c their boy,” 
too? 

The service was drawing to a close. ‘ ‘ The peace 
of God, which passeth understanding—” Mr. 
Seabrooke began, hands upraised above his kneel¬ 
ing congregation. . . . Never had the beauti¬ 

ful words of benediction seemed so tender, so 
fraught with personal meaning, to the young girl 
who knelt with face and heart uplifted, all aglow 
with religious fervor. . . . Like a trumpet 

call, the first notes of the recessional pealed out 
over the hushed throng, and Barbara rose with 
the rest to the stirring measures of the ancient 
hymn, her eyes, still misty with emotion, fixed 
upon the double line of surplices streaming from 
the choir stalls. Down the chancel steps they 
came, led by little Billy Harbie bearing high the 
gleaming cross. As usual Billy looked more an¬ 
gelic than any stained-glass cherub, nor did the 
well-known fact that his Sunday face was widely 
at variance with his week-day behavior, suffice to 
spoil the picture. It was a scene carelessly 
familiar to Barbara’s eye through years of accus¬ 
tomedness; but today she was seeing it with her 
heart, and it took on new beauty—the stately pro¬ 
cession of singing men and boys . . . here a 

dash of scarlet in the edge of a hymnal, picked out 
against the black and white of cassock and cotta 
. . . there a face transfigured— 

The littlest boys had reached the Adams pew 


ANANIAS' DAUGHTER 


107 


now. . “All the winter of our sins, Long and dark 
is flying—” rose the clear young voices in cres¬ 
cendo. . . . Now Jimmy, in his new place 

among the men, was but a half dozen pews distant; 
Barbara could distinguish his voice, separate it 
from the others, purer, sweeter than any—than 
Mr. Phillips’ even, who had studied abroad. Bar¬ 
bara thrilled with pride—or was it? 

“Comes to glad Jerusalem, 

Who with true affection—” 

Suddenly Jimmy raised his eyes and looked 
straight into hers. . . . And something hap¬ 

pened to Barbara Ann. The throng of worship¬ 
pers faded into oblivion; the church was strange¬ 
ly, gloriously empty of all save herself and Jimmy 
for that one long moment during which their eyes 
held, startled, grave— 

Barbara was very quiet when Jimmy joined 
them for the walk home, nor was Jimmy his usual 
cheerfully loquacious self. She thanked him for 
her violets, shyly offering him the one tiny half- 
opened pink rose from the center of the bunch, to 
put in his coat. He looked down at it, an odd little 
smile on his lips. “It’s like you, Barbara!” he 
exclaimed softly, with a quick, half-startled glance 
at her, so slim and straight and radiant beside 
him. 

Barbara could not speak of his singing, but 
Aunt Cindy said it was splendid, and Uncle Ben 
clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. “No, 
I’m sorry,” he said to Aunt Cindy, “I promised 
Mother I’d be home—” 

Barbara was glad. She didn’t want, just then, 
to talk to Jimmy about such things as passing the 



108 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


biscuits, and would he like some more pudding! 

That afternoon Barbara asked Aunt Cindy if 
she couldn’t put up her hair, and have her dresses 
a little longer. “ I’m sixteen now, you know, and 
lots of the girls have done theirs up for ages. 
Can’t I, Aunt Cindy?” 

Again the gate of Yesterday had closed behind 
Barbara Ann, and she stood, half reluctant, within 
the garden of Today. 


X 


To outward seeming, things went on about as 
usual between Barbara and Jim, though now and 
again, as they chummed around together, the boy 
would encounter some slight barrier of reserve 
which had not obtained in their old intimacy, but 
which he found pleasantly stimulating, even in his 
bewilderment; and to Barbara there was unwonted 
sweetness in the thought that Jimmy would be 
waiting for her after school; that “Are you 
going?” to this festivity or that was but another 
way of saying, 4< We ’re going, aren’twel ’ 9 Sweet, 
too, was that strange new thrill when he was near; 
sweet, even, that curious aching loneliness when 
he wasn’t. 

But there was no sweetness whatever in a cer¬ 
tain little stabbing pain in Barbara’s throat, which 
seemingly had to do with the sight of Jimmy in the 
company of another girl. It didn’t often happen. 
Girls in general were mere incidents in Jimmy’s 
young life; Barbara was,a habit. You didn’t 
need to entertain Barbara, nor think up things to 
talk about. “You just talked, if you felt like it, 
and if you didn’t, you didn’t hafta,” And an¬ 
other thing about Barbara: she wasn’t forever on 
her ear about little things, like starting in to 
whistle on the street when she was along, or for¬ 
getting to pop up out of your chair the minute she 
came in the room. Some of the girls were like 
that; Stella Martine, now. Once when Barbara 
and Aunt Cindy were at Asbury for a month, 
Stella had taken him in hand—Whew! 

109 


110 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Jimmy had an uncomfortable feeling that Stella 
wasn’t through with him yet, and he was ruder, 
perhaps, than he need have been, but Stella 
seemed undismayed. Her bright “I’ll play for 
you, Jimmy!” to the crowd’s “Aw, c’mon, Jim, 
chirp up! Givvus a song!” brought on many a 
sudden cold, advertised by a cough which, if real, 
would surely have done for Jimmy in something 
less than a week! 

Twice Stella made her kind offer in Barbara’s 
hearing; and then it was that Mr. Horace Nichols 
received the shock of his career. 

For the first time since she began to “take” of 
Miss Hortense Sturges at the age of nine, Barbara 
applied herself to her music in a way that would 
have been heart-warming to Miss Hortense, had 
she been there to see. For the past year or two 
Barbara had been “taking” of Mr. Nichols, who 
had a whole dollar a lesson instead of fifty cents, 
but still she hadn’t been able to work up much 
enthusiasm. Aunt Cindy, who didn’t know the 
meaning of the word “penurious,” sighed over 
that dollar a lesson, but Grandma Ferriss insisted. 
In her day young ladies who were so fortunate as 
to have a musical instrument in the house, learned 
to play on it! So the lessons went on, but Barbara 
learned not—for no reason whatever, Mr. Nichols 
said, except that she didn’t want to. 

“Old Nick” w T as quite dazed by the miracle, 
while Barbara’s family grew perplexed to the 
point of anxiety. None of them, you see, knew 
anything about that queer little pain Barbara felt 
at sight of Jimmy standing beside another girl 
at the piano. But Barbara knew, and her fingers 
grew strong and supple with long, patient hours 
of scales and chords and arpeggios; the loathed 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


111 


“finger exercises” thumped incessant rhythm on 
book and dinner table—on the edge of the dishpan, 
even! Life, for Barbara Ann, became just one 
etude after another. 

She begged for longer lessons, and got them, 
and begged for more. Couldn’t she have two les¬ 
sons a week, Aunt Cindy, if she would do all the 
ironing, and take care of Grandma’s room as well 
as her own? .... And when Stella on a 
third occasion was about to offer her services as 
accompanist, her mouth fell open, and then closed 
with a snap; for Barbara was already at the 
piano, running over with expert touch, the prelude 
to the then ubiquitous ‘‘ Holy City! ’ ’ 

It didn’t stop there. Anxious to do her best for 
Jimmy, to acquit herself well in his eyes, Barbara 
continued to study and to practice, though to a 
less alarming extent, till Jimmy came quite to 
depend on her, each rejoicing in secret over this 
further bond between them. Not that Barbara, 
for all her eager industry, played better than the 
other girls; Stella herself far outdid her in the 
carelessly brilliant strumming which was known 
in their set as “playing the piano”; but where 
Jimmy was concerned, Barbara developed a sort 
of sixth sense which in time made her an almost 
perfect accompanist, merging her personality in 
that of the singer, making the piano an echo, an 
undercurrent, a complement of the song. 

Mrs. Landridge firmly believed in her son’s 
future as a singer, and ambitiously planned for 
him an operatic career—so many years abroad 
when he should have finished college, loud-her¬ 
alded triumphs at Paris and Milan, the glory of a 
Metropolitan premiere. In all of which, however, 


112 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


she reckoned without the future star, himself. 
Jimmy had other plans, with music definitely rele¬ 
gated to the sidelines. An ignoble ambition was 
Jimmy’s; he would be an architect, a mere crafts¬ 
man of the compass and the T-square, a planner 
of kitchens and clubs and towering temples of 
trade. Ftom his earliest building-block days, ele¬ 
vations and floor-plans had been his delight; and 
cherished above all other possessions were sundry 
discarded drawings and blueprints from the office 
of Osgood, Harper and Osgood, of Chicago; which 
Mr. Harper, knowing of the boy’s interest, had 
sent him from time to time. Mr. Harper had been 
a friend of Jimmy’s father, and to Jimmy, was a 
god but one seat lower on Olympus than the dimly- 
remembered 1 4 Papa” of his babyhood. 

There came a time when Jimmy had need of all 
his gods; for he found out that which it is not well 
for any boy to know—that the mother he adored 
had feet of clay. She did not understand; she had 
no sympathy with his hopes and ambitions; she 
wanted to plan his life, and—darn it, it wasn’t 
fair! It wasn’t as if he wanted to go devilling 
around all the time and not do any work or any¬ 
thing; all he wanted was his work, the work he 
liked and knew he could do. And maybe it was 
childish, as she had said, but he wanted those 
blueprints . . . and she had burned them! 

Gee!—when a fellow’s mother didn’t play fair! 
. . . What if they did litter up his room, and 

all that? It was his room. Couldn’t a fellow have 
any place at all to keep his things? . . . You 

could learn a lot from blueprints—Mr. Harper 
said so himself, and studying those drawings 
wasn’t u mooning around.” His mother seemed 
to think that now they were out of the way he 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 113 

could practise more. All right! Just for that, he 
wouldn’t practise at all. He’d show ’em! 

Not for nothing was that lower lip of Jimmy’s. 
His mother argued and entreated, finally with 
tears. Jimmy was quite polite about it. But 
Jimmy did not sing . . . Until a day when 

there arrived another big roll of drawings from 
Chicago. 

He took them upstairs, looked them over lei¬ 
surely, and having locked them in his desk, came 
down and went to the piano for his usual daily 
quota of Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahs and Ho-ho-ho- 
ho-ho-ho-ho-hos. Every day after that, he prac¬ 
tised ; first inspecting the hiding-place of his treas¬ 
ures, however, to make sure they hadn’t followed 
the others furnace-ward. Once and for all, Jimmy 
had untied his mother’s apron strings! 

It made the final rebellion the easier. For the 
subject was not yet closed, although by mutual 
consent they ignored the incident of the burned 
blueprints. Jimmy’s voice was a God-given asset, 
his mother averred, and plainly it would be flying 
in the face of Providence if he failed to collect the 
wages of fame and fortune to which such a talent 
entitled him. His appearance and personality, 
too—no use in being modest unto absurdity; 
Jimmy was good to look at. Of ungainly height, 
but saved from ungainliness by the loose sym¬ 
metry of well-trained muscles, and by broad 
shoulders which never had learned that uncon¬ 
scious stoop of the too-tall boy endeavoring to 
hide his superabundant inches. The blond curls 
which had been his childish detestation had dark¬ 
ened perceptibly, and had been brushed and flat¬ 
tened and close-clipped until one would scarce 
suspect the slight ripple he tried so hard to sub- 


114 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


due. For the rest, frank blue eyes with level 
brows, a good forehead and square chin combined 
to make one overlook the lips a trifle too soft and 
full, the lower one especially, giving just a hint 
of stubborness and sensuality to an otherwise 
most satisfactory face. 

Jimmy was ready to concede his equipment, 
being neither more nor less vain than the average 
of his age and sex. But, as he patiently explained, 
the fact that they had stationary tubs in the base¬ 
ment didn’t make it obligatory for his mother to 
take in washing! And a fellow didn’t hafta have 
a face like a fried egg, to be an architect! His 
mother needn’t ivorry about his voice, either—it 
wouldn’t be w r asted. He’d always sing; glad to, if 
only he didn’t have to do it for a living. Not any 
“Little Tommy Tucker” in Jimmy’s, thank you! 
How’d she know, anyhow, that he’d ever be able 
to earn his supper, singing, not to mention his 
other meals, wdiich he also liked with considerable 
regularity? How could Ole Nick know, or any¬ 
body, till he, Jimmy, had gone and spent years ‘n’ 
years studying, and then maybe made a fizzle of it 
after all? 

But there were ways, apparently. Old Nick ex¬ 
plained, and a compromise was effected. Jimmy, 
after a preliminary period of intensive study and 
a final polish, was to go up to New T York with Mr. 
Nichols, v r ho would arrange to have the boy sing 
before a certain famous impresario, by wiiose 
decision both mother and son agreed to abide. 

The day of the hearing found Jimmy in two 
minds as to wdiether he hadn’t better sing as badly 
as he could, and so squash the matter for good and 
all; but in the end he cast the thought from him. 


ANANIAS 9 DAUGHTER 


115 


Jimmy was square; he wouldn’t doublecross his 
mother nor make a goat of good Ole Nick. Pride, 
too, took a hand—a fellow would feel like a dub, 
up there before all those people; quite an unneces¬ 
sary number, it seemed to him, though scattered 
about the great empty theatre in a way to accen¬ 
tuate its emptiness. 

The wings were full of ’em, too, mostly young 
ladies in what Jimmy thought rather outlandish 
costumes, and other ladies, not so young, in cos¬ 
tumes still more outlandish—at least they looked 
worse. At close range he failed to recognize the 
Gilda, the Amneris, the Marguerite of the operas 
his mother had insisted on as part of his educa¬ 
tion. He only knew that there were far too many 
for his comfort and tranquility of mind. 

And each with a retinue of two or three or more 
—teachers, he supposed, and mothers and aunts 
and things. His mother had been keen on coming 
along, but thank goodness he’d had the sense to 
put his foot down on that, hard, and for a wonder 
Ole Nick had upheld him. If she had been there, 
fussing around like that ole warhorse with the 
skinny daughter who had just gone on, he’d have 
bolted; yes, sir, that’s what he’d have done,bolted! 

. . . Gosh! That girl must think she’s the 

siren on Chemical No. 2. Well, he’d give her the 
road any day! . . . Jimmy, watching Herr 

Schmidt from the wings, gathered that his opinion 
coincided with Jimmy’s to some extent. 

Some of them weren’t so bad, Jimmy thought, 
if only they wouldn’t be all day about it. He 
wanted to get down to Cooper Union before it 
closed, to see an exhibition of water colors on 
landscape gardening; but his number was at the 
very bottom of the list, right after a huge Brunn- 


116 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


hilde who looked as if she had within the cavern¬ 
ous depths of her a voice to summon forth to 
battle untold legions of warriors, dead or alive. 
She stalked upon the stage with a curious drag¬ 
ging step, as if suspicious of thin ice somewhere 
about; she arranged her mouth to permit egress 
of a clarion “ Yo-ho-to-ho”—and lo! The moun¬ 
tain labored and brought forth a mouse—squeak 
and all! 

Herr Schmidt writhed, and being a kindly man, 
passed to his secretary the task of informing 
Brunnhilde that the sooner she hunted up Sieg¬ 
fried and moved into her cave, the better. A good 
husky Siegfried in the carpentering or plumbing 
line, or a grocer, maybe. Somebody who liked 
vaudeville and bid euchre and beefsteak with 
plenty of onions. 

And now Jimmy’s hour had struck, and while, 
of course, he wasn’t what you’d call scairt, exact¬ 
ly, still he did hope they couldn’t see his knees 
wobble, out in front. Jimmy didn’t give a darn 
whether they liked his voice or not, but a fellow 
hated to have his legs act silly! 

Then suddenly from out the draughty shadows 
of the house came a sneeze, loud, laughter-provok¬ 
ing; not a regular, rousing “ker-choo!” but a 
sort of shrill cacchination, a dozen times repeated, 
rising in stuttering crescendo to a final whoop 
of exhaustion. ‘ ‘ Ah-a-a-aaah-heh-heh-heh-heh- 
heh-heh-heh-foe/i-WHOO-OO-OO! ’ ’ sneezed the 
unseen—and Jimmy forgot his knees. He grinned 
widely; then, finding his mouth already open, he 
began to sing! And since he didn’t care a hoot 
one way or the other, he sang well, and Old Nick 
beamed with pride in his pupil. 

Herr Schmidt, looking up from the memoran- 



ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


117 


dum in his hand, which set forth that number 11 
was not a candidate for operatic honors, but mere¬ 
ly sought an opinion as to the possibilities of his 
voice, saw a fresh-faced, overgrown boy in his best 
clothes, who grinned cheerfully and without vis¬ 
ible awe, while the pianist played the opening bars 
of his song. He sang it in understandable Eng¬ 
lish, in tune, and in a voice that showed no sign 
of lifting the building from its foundation, though 
clearly he wasn’t forcing it. A good deal of 
natural sweetness of tone, which hadn’t yet been 
trained out, and lacking a number of things that 
hadn’t yet been trained in. A pleasant voice to 
listen to—altogether, Herr Schmidt found re¬ 
freshment in number 11, following an afternoon of 
numbers 1 to 10, inclusive! 

A little later Jimmy found himself looking 
inquiringly into a pair of twinkling eyes, very 
blue, very sharp; and because he couldn’t at the 
moment think of anything sensible to say, he 
grinned. The twinkling eyes twinkled harder, and 
Herr Schmidt asked Jimmy why he wanted to 
sing in opera. Jimmy replied that he didn’t, par¬ 
ticularly, unless he could be a crackerjack at it! 

It took Herr Schmidt a full minute to assimi¬ 
late “crackerjack”; which being accomplished, he 
twinkled more than ever. Perhaps after all this 
wasn’t going to be so bad. As a rule Herr 
Schmidt didn’t relish the demolition of aircastles 
—the occupants were apt to take it pretty hard; 
frequently they shed tears and occasionally even 
fainted in the dressing rooms. This boy didn’t 
look agitated, but you couldn’t always tell. . . 

Jimmy’s instrument had sweetness and volume, 
said Herr Schmidt; he hadn’t been as badly 
taught as most of ’em, so far as he had gone, 


118 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


which wasn’t very far; he was young and his 
voice should grow and mature with his years; but 
—well, er—ahem! To be quite frank, and—er— 
not to raise false hopes, you know, and—er, ahem! 
Mr. Landridge should do well in recital, in con¬ 
cert or the choir; he could, of course, study for 
opera if he wished—he might find others who 
would so advise him; “But me,” concluded Herr 
Schmidt, “I think not that you efer, Mr. Land¬ 
ridge, become what you call ‘the crack-a-jack’!” 

Nothing in all Herr Schmidt’s experience had 
prepared him for Jimmy’s radiant smile, the 
ecstatic incoherence of his thanks. Here was no 
crestfallen youth to rush forth to some desperate 
deed in a frenzy of disappointment and wounded 
vanity! Jimmy couldn’t seem to thank him 
enough; he shook hands twice and went out beam¬ 
ing! 

To her credit be it said that Mrs. Landridge 
accepted her defeat with grace and gallantry, 
though it certainly was a blow. There would be 
no headlines, no plaudits of the multitude, for 
James Warren Landridge, a mere builder of 
paper houses; which same plaudits would have 
been sweet indeed to the mother of James Warren 
Landridge. Well, she must make the best of it, 
for the present; James might change his mind, 
and as for that crabbed old Dutchman—Pshaw! 
What did one man’s opinion amount to? Very 
likely his sauer-kraut and sausages had disagreed 
with him, or whatever it was that German impre¬ 
sarios had for lunch; or James may have been 
nervous. On the other hand was Mr. Nichols’ 
assurance that this Schmidt usually knew what he 
was talking about, incredible as it seemed in this 
instance. Oh, dear, it certainly was very trying; 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


119 


but apparently there wasn’t anything to do just 
now except to drop the matter, as she had prom¬ 
ised; she could easily take it up again in case 
James showed symptoms of wavering in his devo¬ 
tion to the stupid cross sections and dot-and-dash 
lines—whatever they might be—that he was for¬ 
ever muddling with. 

So Jimmy, at peace with the world, settled 
again to his school work, intent on graduation and 
the two years of college which he had conceded to 
his mother’s views. At first she had held out for 
a full course with an A. B. at the end in orthodox 
fashion, while Jimmy had declared for its entire 
elimination; but Mrs. Landridge had dwelt upon 
the cultural as well as the practical value of a 
college education to the truly great in architecture 
as in other fields, and once again they had com¬ 
promised. 

At one time, however, when Jimmy mentioned 
his choice of an Alma Mater, it looked as if nego¬ 
tiations were going on the rocks. Chicago! But 
why, for goodness’ sake! Weren’t there colleges 
enough right here in the East! And Columbia 
and Princeton both, one might say, at his very 
door— 

Jimmy had the answer in his pocket, in a letter 
from Mr. Harper. It was in reply to one of 
Jimmy’s, and offered an opportunity to put in his 
spare time working in the Osgood, Harper and 
Osgood offices, if he should decide to come to Chi¬ 
cago; salary not large, but practical working ex¬ 
perience—immense! Two years, planned Jimmy, 
and then Paris and the long-dreamed-of Beaux 
Arts, if he worked very hard indeed; and wouldn’t 
he work, though! 

He and Barbara had talked it all over, dozens 


120 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


of times; it was such fun to plan together! They 
talked of the wonderful commissions Jimmy 
would get, and he explained about an idea he had 
for a library—not just a place to get books and 
tiptoe about and talk in whispers, but a sort of 
community club house, with billiards and a sun 
parlor and swimming pool, and illuminated tennis 
courts for evening play. That sort of thing would 
be worth while, wouldn’t it ? 

Barbara rather thought she should write; 
poems, perhaps, but real poems like Hiawatha, 
not just little things that they print in magazines 
when the end of the story doesn’t reach quite to 
the bottom of the page. Though, of course, at first 
one might have to do most anything in order to 
get a start. Already Barbara had had some 
verses printed in the Courier, and had written a 
patriotic poem which Miss Welch, the singing 
teacher at school, had set to music for the Memo¬ 
rial Day exercises. ... Or maybe she would 
write novels, and become very rich and famous, 
like Mrs. Humphrey Ward. 

So Jimmy and Barbara Ann planned and 
dreamed, but always of their work, never of them¬ 
selves. And they went together to parties and 
things, and Jimmy sang and Barbara played his 
accompaniments. What dear, happy times those 
were! Everyone liked Jimmy, and Barbara, too, 
was popular in the way that shy and quiet people 
often are; yet she frankly envied those other girls 
who by some delightful necromancy seemed al¬ 
ways able to surround themselves with boys in 
swarms, like bees around a honeysuckle vine. 
She would have been greatly astonished could she 
have known that scarcely one of those same boys 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


121 


who flocked so gayly to the banners of Stella Mar- 
tine and of Ethel Harbie, for example, but had 
more than once looked after Barbara’s pretty 
figure as she met Jimmy after school, and wished 
Jim Landridge would go chase himself, and give 
a feller a chance! 

In particular there was Amory Booth. Barbara 
liked Amory, and Amory—well, there was always 
Jimmy, and Jimmy was Amory’s pal. A fellow 
may feel liking and even a degree of reverence 
for his chum’s girl, if he will, but alas, no more 
than that, not even with encouragement. And 
Barbara quite frankly “liked Amory a lot,” and 
that was all there was to it. Her very frankness 
made it the more hopeless for Amory. 

Conforming likewise to the custom of her day 
and age which decreed side-partners of the same 
sex as well as two sing with the opposite one, Bar¬ 
bara had paired off with Ethel Harbie after Kitty 
Breen left school to enter “Business College.” 
This had been during their first year in High 
School. Pardon! Freshman year, I should have 
said. These collegiate terms were very important 
when one was in “High.” The school grounds, a 
half block in extent, spread out imposingly as The 
Campus; the chapter from the Bible, followed by 
the Lord’s Prayer and sometimes a five-minute 
talk by Prof. Stone, was, of course, Chapel; the 
Prof, himself was known as “Prexy”; Cuts and 
Conditions and Semesters and Frats tripped glib¬ 
ly from the tongue—oh, yes, about Kitty. Kitty 
now occupied a little glassed-in cage beside the 
door in Fullerton’s Fish Market, dispensing 
change and sprightly conversation; but it was 
rumored that Fullerton’s customers were soon to 
receive these blessings at the hand of another. 



122 


ANANIAS' DAUGHTER 


Barbara herself often met Kitty ‘‘out walking" 
with young Billy Gerachty, who was, she informed 
Barbara, her “steady." 

It set Barbara wondering about Jimmy. Could 
she, if she wished, properly refer to him as her 
steady? He was steady enough, goodness knew, 
so far as companionship went, but as yet nothing 
had been said about it; and Barbara gathered 
from her reading and other sources that things 
usually were said, very interesting things, before 
you and your steady really belonged. She was 
always making up in her mind the kind of things 
she would like to have Jimmy say to her—splen¬ 
did things, ringing, heroic things; but Jimmy, 
serenely unconscious, failed to play up. He just 
kept on being the same old Jimmy, sans heroism, 
sans eloquence, sans, in fact, many attributes of 
the marvellous young men she found between the 
covers of her books, from Ivanhoe to Marie Cor¬ 
elli. Sometimes she felt that Amory might make 
a more satisfactory hero of romance. At least he 
would look the part—darkly handsome, with fea¬ 
tures that might have been limned by the great 
Charles Dana himself, and a certain melancholy 
beauty of expression which blond men never seem 
able to achieve. 

There was one other of the boys who made no 
secret of the fact that Barbara Ann found favor 
in his eyes. His name was Chester Liddell—Lid- 
dell, of course, though his grandfather had ac¬ 
cented the first syllable instead, and there were 
those who still Lidd led the family, to the intense 
disgust of Mrs. Lid dell. To Barbara, a Liddell 
by whatever name was anathema; for Barbara 
loathed Chester with a great and boundless loath¬ 
ing. 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


123 


It wasn’t his looks entirely, though Chester was 
far. from handsome; it wasn’t that he lacked 
brains, for in school he led his classes to such an 
extent that Jimmy once remarked in discourage¬ 
ment, “Gee, if Ches is the head of the class and 
the rest of us are the body, then all I’ve got to say 
is—that this class has got a darned long neck!” 
It wasn’t his manners, which were a shade too 
perfect; nor even his voice, which was many 
shades too soft and smooth. Pressed for a reason 
for her dislike, Barbara could offer none more 
logical than that he was fat, and looked like a 
codfish! 

The fact is that Chester was what is called 
“odd,” and “being odd” is youth’s one unforgiv¬ 
able sin. To most of the girls he was a joke; to 
Barbara he was a tragedy. Every opportunity 
found him at her elbow, snubs and slights being to 
his persistence as a spring shower to a duck. He 
was forever cutting in ahead of Jimmy when he 
could, at dances, and going home from school and 
from evening service; though that she might have 
condoned, if he hadn’t been such an ab-sul-lute 
freak! The name stuck. Chester became 
“Freak” Liddell to them all, and “Freak” he 
remained through school and college, and on into 
a bald and substantial middle age. 

Yet it was he who caused the first real quarrel 
between Barbara and Jim. It happened in their 
“Senior” year. Mrs. Landridge had been ill, and 
Jimmy, in consequence, out of school for a week 
or two, leaving Barbara utterly at the mercy of 
the detestable Chester. Not even Amory was 
there for her protection as heretofore, gratefully 
accepting such crumbs of her companionship as 
might fall to the lot of a mere deputy; Amory, 


124 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


graduated the previous June, was at Columbia 
this year, and came home only for week ends and 
holidays. And Chester, pursuing the course that 
made him dean of a mid-western university at 
thirty-four, saw his opportunity and grasped it. 

Skillfully as Barbara sought to evade him, yet 
more skillful was he in bringing about “chance” 
meetings, so that more than once Jimmy glimpsed 
them from a distance, walking home from school 
together, or coming from the library or the post 
office. And then one evening Jimmy had come to 
call, and there was the “Freak” stretched at his 
ease in Jimmy’s favorite porch chair, with Bar¬ 
bara sitting straight and prim and very much 
flushed, on the extreme edge of another, as if 
poised for instant flight. 

Curtly refusing Barbara’s flustered tender of 
a chair, Jimmy perched upon the railing and pro¬ 
ceeded to make himself about as charming and 
agreeable as a young grizzly. Conversation lan¬ 
guished. Yes, it was a nice enough night. Ye-ah, 
a little chilly. Didn’t know whether he’d go to 
the clambake Sat-day or not. His mother was 
better, thanks. He’d be back in school tomorrow, 
he guessed . . . Till even Chester’s obtuse¬ 

ness felt the tension, and he took himself off, won¬ 
dering what any girl could see in an old grouch 
like that! 

It seemed to Barbara that she never had been 
so glad to see Jimmy, and she had begun to tell 
him so, when he interrupted, growling grizzly- 
wise: “Yes, you did! You musta missed me the 
deuce of a lot! ’ ’—with as villainous a sneer as he 
could contrive with a set of features which ob¬ 
viously were never meant for sneering. “Huh! 
Nice consolation you picked, ’sail I gotta say! 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


125 


For the love of mud, Barbara, if you’ve got to 
have a fellow around every minute, can’t you 
scrape up something that at least looks human—” 
Jimmy choked, while Barbara stared in hurt 
amazement. 

Now, of course, Jimmy wasn’t really jealous of 
the ‘ 4 Freak. ’ ’ That would have been too absurd, 
as he very well knew; but something within him, 
something masculine and possessive and untamed, 
rose up and smote him sharply a little to the left 
of the wishbone, at sight of the two—together, 
silent, and obviously perturbed at his coming. 
Jimmy told himself he wouldn’t have minded if it 
had been any one else; Amory, or Bull Smith, or 
Ted Rossiter or any of the fellows in their own 
crowd; good fellows all, with whom a girl might 
laugh and dance and—well, even flirt a little, may¬ 
be—and it wouldn’t mean a thing. But this rank 
outsider, this “Freak” person—Gosh! 

Now this evening it had happened that Barbara, 
hearing a step on the porch, had dashed out, fully 
expecting to see Jimmy, and had discovered her 
mistake too late to slip back and send Aunt Cindy 
to the door instead. Seeing no escape, she sat 
down as far as possible from her unwelcome 
caller, the while she racked her brain for means 
of deliverance. The smitten youth changed his 
seat for one nearer. At once Barbara moved to a 
chair still farther away, at which Chester repeated 
his manoeuver; and when Jimmy arrived the two 
were engaged in a sedate game of tag, with Ches¬ 
ter “it”! Chester was deadly serious, but Bar¬ 
bara had much ado to keep her countenance; it 
would be the richest thing to tell Jimmy and the 
girls! And here, glory be! was Jimmy, and what 
a laugh they’d have when the “Freak” had gone! 




126 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


But wh-what's thisf Well, Mr. High-and- 
Mighty! “Got to have a fellow around,” did you 
say? And “scrape up” something .... 
Barbara stiffened, and with icy distinctness re¬ 
quested to be informed in regard to the date upon 
which she had asked Jimmy to select her friends 
for her. (Friend, forsooth, and Barbara fairly 
shuddering her dislike of him that very minute!) 

“Oh, very well, if that’s the way you feel about 
it!” And Jimmy got up from the railing and 
marched off without another word. 

How Barbara got to her room she hardly knew. 
At first, anger burned up every other emotion. 
That Jimmy could have so misunderstood, could 
have spoken so contemptuously to her—“Got to 
have” and “Scrape up!”—to her, Barbara 
Thair, almost finically fastidious in her associa¬ 
tions ! And from Jimmy, her good pal almost 
from babyhood! Whatever had come over him, to 
blow up over nothing that way? If he was tired of 
going around with her, why didn’t he say so in¬ 
stead of picking a silly quarrel? . . . Came 

then to Barbara Ann a vision of long, Jimmy-less 
days, and the tears came at last; she cried herself 
to sleep. 

Jimmy, meanwhile, was having rather a bad 
time of it himself. The first flush of his indigna¬ 
tion past, he didn’t feel nearly so pleased with 
himself as he had expected. He found leisure to 
reflect that Barbara hadn’t looked so awf’ly 
happy in the “Freak’s” company, at that. Hang 
it all, he guessed he’d oughta given her a chance 
to explain, anyhow. . . . ’Course, Barbara 

got mad too . . . but he was mad first . . . 

and—well, hang it, he s ’posed he might have asked 
her, first off, how come she forgot to sweep the 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


127 


porch that morning—sarcastic, you know, like 
that. He’d see her tomorrow, after school, and 
make up—if she would. Gee, he couldn’t stand it 
not to be friends with Barbara! . . . Jimmy 

buried his face in the pillow. 

On the morrow, however, Barbara was not in 
her classes, and when Jimmy, half sick with ap¬ 
prehension, went down to the house after school, 
he was met by Aunt Cindy with the news that 
Barbara had a bad headache and had been in bed 
all day. Good Lord! Barbara never had head¬ 
aches! Aunt Cindy hid a smile at the boy’s 
stricken face; she pulled him down to her and 
whispered; Jimmy stared, gave Aunt Cindy a 
great bear-hug, and was off like a shot. 

An hour later Barbara was opening a long 
pasteboard box whose cover bore the magic name 
“Stafford” in flourishy script. Within were 
roses, the half-blown pink ones that Jimmy had 
said were like her . And a note in Jimmy’s dear 
familiar hand—small and even, almost like print; 
so absurdly at variance with the bigness of the 
hand that wrote it, so reminiscent of the hiero¬ 
glyphics that adorned his beloved plans and blue¬ 
prints. 

“Barbara girl”—it ran, her first love letter— 
“I was a beast. I just couldn’t bear to see you 
going around with that darned old owl. I ought 
to have known you couldn’t help it. I’m sorry as 
anything. If I catch him bothering you again I’ll 
paste him one in the snoot. I hope your headache 
will be all right tomorrow so you can see me and 
tell me everything’s all right. Yours, Jim.” 


XI 


‘ 1 Commencement week’’ was ever a season of 
high festivity in this little tidewater town, as in 
most other towns of its size up and down the land. 
Unlatch for a moment the gate of yesterday’s 
garden, and peep through the crack at your own 
commencement week. ’Member the collegiate 
airs the High School put on, with its Baccalau¬ 
reate sermon on the Sunday evening, preached 
by the Methodist minister, or the Baptist, or Pres¬ 
byterian, or Episcopal, each in his turn, so there 
wouldn’t he any hard feelings; even the ‘‘Catho¬ 
lic priest” being included if you were a broad¬ 
minded community, or his reverence happened to 
be personally popular, like Father Christian, 
whose turn it was the year Barbara and Jimmy 
graduated. 

Monday, or maybe Tuesday, would he Class 
Day, occasion of quips and jibes and merry jests, 
when you got off your class song and your class 
poem and your class yell, and handed out sage 
advice to the Junior Class and presents to the 
faculty—or was it the other way ’round? No, it 
was the faculty that got the egg-heater and the 
bottle of cough syrup and the doormat with “ Wel¬ 
come” on it, though for the life of us we can’t 
remember why! 

And the class prophecy—gracious, yes, the 
prophecy! What a mercy those prophecies almost 
never come true! What a world it would be, 
peopled exclusively by senators and bishops and 
doctors and diplomats and poets and artists and 

128 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


129 


admirals and the like! And whatever should we 
do for dressmakers and street-car conductors and 
grocers and postmen and janitors—and babies! 

Then about Wednesday came Commencement 
properdin the Opera House, with Tryon’s orches¬ 
tra to discourse incidental music. The faculty and 
the “Board” sat upon a semicircle of yellow- 
varnished kitchen chairs before the pillared por¬ 
tico on the back drop; the graduates in a flutter 
and white organdie, or in new shoes and neckties 
and a state of extreme nervousness, being similar¬ 
ly arranged in the full brilliance of the footlights. 
If you wore organdie, you read an essay on some 
vital topic like “Famous Queens of History,’’ and 
showed up Cleopatra and Mary Queen of Scots 
and Marie Antoinette and the rest, quite as they 
deserved; or if you were of the new-shoe-and- 
necktie contingent, you proceeded oratorically to 
settle the affairs of state and nation, with gestures 
carefully inserted in the proper places. Com¬ 
mencement is no fun nowadays; they get a speaker 
from out of town, and he speaks, and you sit and 
listen. You could have a van load of flowers and 
nobody’d be the wiser. Not like the old days, with 
the ushers handing up sheaves of roses and car¬ 
nations over the footlights, and you in white 
organdie, laden with the spoils of greenhouse and 
garden, sweeping a radiant curtesy as you backed 
into your place in the semicircle. We don’t re¬ 
member whether the boys got flowers too; if they 
did, white organdie doubtless added those to her 
collection in the course of the evening! 

Afterward, soft music by the orchestra, while 
the “sheepskins,” printed on heavy white paper 
suitable for framing, were distributed, each rolled 
into a tube and tied with the class colors. Bar- 


130 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


bara’s class chose red, white, and blue, because 
that year everyone was in quite a state of patriot¬ 
ism over our little fracas with Don Spaniard. 
And so they were graduated, thus automatically 
attaining membership in the Red Haven High 
School Alumni Association; or almost automati¬ 
cally: there was the small matter of a fee—a 
quarter, was it, or half a dollar! 

That let you in on the banquet Thursday eve¬ 
ning at W. C. T. U. Hall; a regular “course 
dinner ’ ’ with printed menus, and toasts responded 
to by Doctor Strang for the “old grads’’; by Mr. 
Doxtader, the druggist, for the school board; by 
Mr. Smyllie, the science teacher, for the faculty; 
and by William Smith—the “Bull” Smith of 
former days—for the newest alumni. This being 
William’s maiden appearance as an after-dinner 
speaker, he was considerably ‘ ‘ rattled, ” as we ex¬ 
pressed it then; so much so that when he rose to 
begin with great formality, “Mr. President: 
Ladies and Gentlemen:” he quite inadvertently 
bowed to pretty Elsie Ansley, who sat opposite, 
instead of to portly Henry Corbin, ’89, at the 
head of the table. After that, however, he got on 
very well, and spoke w T ith great force and dis¬ 
crimination, according to the Weekly Courier. 

Ah! but Friday night! Then came the crown¬ 
ing event of the week—nay, of the entire year— 
the Senior Ball. The local orchestra, while very 
well in its way, was not to be thought of on this 
occasion; so an organization of assorted strings, 
woodwinds and brasses was brought down from 
the city, which if it didn’t play any better, at any 
rate cost much more, which was very gratifying 
indeed. 

In those days before the advent of the “cheek- 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


131 


to-cheek” dance, when even the one-step, the hesi¬ 
tation and the fox-trot would have been deemed 
importations direct from the workshop of the 
Evil One; when our elders, at least, would have 
perished with horror could they have but imagined 
the iniquities of the bunny hug, the toddle and the 
i i shimmy ”—w r e danced, in those days, waltzes and 
two-steps in alternation, with one or two quad¬ 
rilles or Lancers for the benefit of such older 
people as might be frivolously inclined. The ball 
opened with a grand march, formed to the blare 
of trumpets at nine o’clock precisely—an hour 
delightfully late and citified—and led this particu¬ 
lar year by Amory Booth and Ethel Harbie, the 
handsomest couple on the floor. Barbara was 
lovely in her new party frock of shimmering 
rose; most of the girls had new ones, though you 
could wear your commencement dress, of course. 
Jimmy had sent roses to match her gown, and had 
come for her in a cab, himself looking perfectly 
splendid in his first 4 ‘dress suit” and white gloves. 
Oh, we are very grown-up indeed, at seventeen- 
and-a-half and almost-nineteen! 

The last vacation with Jimmy at home was a 
wonder-time to Barbara Ann. There was all 
their dear camaraderie of old, and beneath it some 
new element, strange and sweet, a something that 
made Jimmy very tender and gentle toward Bar¬ 
bara, and oddly solicitous for her safety and 
comfort; something which impelled him to a 
steadying touch as she stepped lightly aboard 
“Lucinda Jane,” or to lend an assisting hand up 
to the float, when they swam together at the beach; 
Barbara, who had ever been more than sufficient 
unto herself in all such matters! And for Jimmy, 


132 


ANANIAS* DAUGHTER 


Barbara donned her prettiest frocks, and did all 
she knew to make herself lovely in his eyes; for 
Jimmy, who had raced with her barefoot, 
squabbled with her in pinafores, and admired her 
in sweeping cap and apron, helping Aunt Cindy 
with housewifely zeal! 

His appreciation was instant and boyish, and 
none the less profound for being expressed in the 
argot of his clay and age instead of in the Cam¬ 
bridge English Barbara thought she wanted to 
hear. “Say, Bobs, d’ya know you’re one dandy 
girl?” was his tribute oft-repeated, with slight 
variations; his eyes, however, speaking a language 
Boston itself could not have bettered, a language 
that was universal some thousands of years 
before the dawn of Esperanto and its ilk. 

The evening before his departure for Chicago 
and the beginning of his Career, he came to bid 
Barbara good-bye. They had the porch quite to 
themselves, Uncle Ben being reminded by Aunt 
Cindy of a certain important letter to be written 
forthwith, and she going along herself to make 
sure that he wrote it; and Grandma Ferriss hav¬ 
ing fled the perils of the night air along about mid- 
afternoon, as was her custom. There was a very 
satisfactory moon; the mild September night held 
the faintest hint of approaching autumn in its 
odor of hardy blossom and occasional falling leaf. 
Some one in the neighborhood had a bonfire; the 
air was filled with its pungent aroma, so different 
from that of brush fires in the spring, or of com¬ 
mon bonfires at any season. 

The coming separation weighed upon the spirits 
of both. They spoke little, and of commonplace 
things; so that when Jimmy rose, reluctantly, to 


ANANIAS* DAUGHTER 


133 


take his leave, whole dictionaries of pent-up 
speech seemed still to lie between them. 

“Well, I’ll be home Christmas, I guess—” he 
began matter-of-factly, and took Barbara’s out¬ 
stretched hand. For a moment he held it in the 
firm clasp which was Jimmy’s customary hand¬ 
shake; then for another—and another—and an¬ 
other—and ever so many more he held it, for 
sheer inability to let it go again. Till the little 
god Eros whispered in his subconscious ear a 
simple problem in mathematics, i. e., that one 
thrill multiplied by two equals two thrills; where¬ 
upon Jimmy possessed himself of Barbara’s other 
hand. 

“Why, Barbara girl! Not crying f dear! Ah, 
don’t, Honey, don’t—you mustn’t do that! Why, 
will you miss me so much ! ” he asked, curiously. 

Something in his voice set Barbara’s lips 
a-quiver so that she could not answer; she closed 
her eyes to keep back the tears she did not want 
him to see—and swifter than thought she was in 
his arms, held so close that she could feel the 
pounding of his heart above her own. His kisses 
sealed her eyelids, caressed her slim throat, 
painted her cheeks .... Then the earth 
swayed and stood still, as their lips met . . . . 

“Oh, my Barbara girl! I never dreamed it 
could be so sweet!” Jimmy caught his breath 
with a little laugh that was half a sob. “Barbara, 
you are my girl, aren’t you, darling!” he whis¬ 
pered; “—always and forever, dear, you’re my 
girl! ’ ’ 

Tenderly he stroked the dark head, awkwardly 
he patted the quivering shoulder, waiting for her 
to speak. “Say it, sweetheart!” he begged, when 
he could bear the suspense no longer. 


134 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


And then at last she raised her head, and. there 
was all the love of all the world shining in her 
tear-wet eyes. ‘ ‘Always and forever, Jimsy, 
your girl!” she answered very softly. 

While he lived Jim Landridge was to keep the 
vision of her as she stood before him at that mo¬ 
ment, holding him at arm’s length, her dear face 
shadowed, her dress dappled with moonlight 
through the syringa leaves .... 

“Gee, I just can’t bear to go!” said Jimmy at 
last; but after two or three false starts he finally 
reached the gate, turning, bareheaded, for a last 
long look at the slim figure outlined against the 
dimness of the porch. 

Jimmy was surprised, as he neared home, to 
see a light in the library; his mother didn’t usually 
wait up for him. Probably wanted to tell him 
again about putting on his heavy underwear as 
soon as it grew the least bit cold, and to get a 
doctor right away if he got a chill or anything; 
he would be leaving so early in the morning that 
there wouldn’t be time for much of that. Jimmy 
chuckled as he thought of what he planned to do 
with those old “heavies” once he got away from 
maternal inspection of his laundry—but he was 
glad his mother was up. Such happiness as his 
had to be shared, and what double happiness to 
share it with his mother! How glad she would be 
for him, that he had this to take with him on the 
morrow. How she would love Barbara! Gee! 
Wasn’t he the lucky fellow to have such a girl, 
and such a mother! 

He sprang lightly upon the porch, scorning the 
two intervening steps; swung wide the library 
door; strode to his mother’s chair, pulling her out 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


135 


of it to hug her; and—‘ ‘ Mother! ” he cried, husk¬ 
ily, 4 ‘Oh, Mother!” 

But it wasn’t flannels this time, nor even over¬ 
coats and socks. All the evening, in fact for 
several weeks, Mrs. Landridge had been nerving 
herself for a serious talk with her son, and now 
it could be put off no longer; James must be 
spoken to about this girl matter. The old childish 
friendship with that pretty Barbara Thair was 
growing into a new intimacy, the seriousness of 
which she was unable to estimate, but which filled 
her with uneasiness, nevertheless. Earnestly, 
prayerfully even, she had debated the wisdom of 
letting matters take their course; an attachment 
in Red Haven might prove an anchor to keep 
James from sailing away in the wake of some 
equally attractive young person totally unknown 
to James’ mother. On the other hand, this poten¬ 
tial young person was not necessarily a wholly 
undesirable young person, and a “good” marriage 
did mean so much to a professional man! No, on 
the whole it would be as well to dispense with the 
anchor, Mrs. Landridge thought, and at the same 
time to take the opportunity of warning James 
off the matrimonial shoals in whatever quarter. 
Like Barbara? Why, certainly she liked Bar¬ 
bara; Barbara was a very nice girl indeed, and her 
family connections unexceptionable; no money, of 
course, but then—well, anyway, for the present at 
least, an engagement was not to be thought of. 
Surely James could see that. They were too 
young, his future was by no means assured. He 
must not entangle himself in a sentimental alli¬ 
ance which would take time and attention from 
his work and so hamper him at the very outset of 
his career! 


136 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


This, and considerably more, she set forth elo¬ 
quently and persuasively to the flushed, eager and 
rather breathless boy who came to her with his 
heart in his eyes, to tell her how it was with Bar¬ 
bara and himself. It was all very sensible and 
reasonable, Jimmy had to admit; but who wanted 
to be sensible or reasonable when there was love in 
the world, and soft young eyes and young lips 
upturned to his in the moonlight! 

So Jimmy stormed and his mother argued. 
Stubbornly he refused to break with Barbara. 
Mrs. Landridge reminded him that until his 
twenty-first birthday, still two years distant, he 
would not be his own master, nor that of the 
legacy left by his father, but must live and pursue 
his studies upon her bounty. Ah, but that was 
quite the wrong tack to take with Jimmy, as she 
speedily realized. His face was white enough 
now, and his eyes hard, as he tried to tell her that, 
darn it, he didn’t want anyone’s ‘ ‘ bounty. ’ ’ He’d 
get himself a job; other fellows did. He’d work 
like a dog, work anywhere, at anything, for years 
‘n’ years, if he had to, for Barbara. That’s what 
she was to him! College could go hang! He was 
a man, if he wasn’t twenty-one, and Barbara was 
his girl. Nothing could change that—Barbara 
was his girl! 

The thought, so poignantly sweet, overcame for 
the moment his anger and bitterness of heart; his 
mother, quick to take advantage of the gentler 
mood, patted the couch beside her, invitingly. 
“Come, James; let’s stop wrangling and talk it 
over sensibly,” she urged. 

But Jimmy continued to stalk from window to 
fireplace and back again, finally coming to a halt 
beside the mantel-shelf, his head bowed miserably 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


137 


upon folded arms, his face half hidden. “Just 
what is it—that you want me—to do, Mother?” 
came at last in muffled tones. 

“Only to be reasonable, James dear, and fair 
to the girl.” 

Jimmy looked up quickly. “What do you mean, 
‘fair to the girl’?” he demanded. 

‘ 1 But can’t you see, boy ? Don’t you realize that 
it will be five or six years at the very least, before 
you can ask any girl to marry you—before you can 
hope to support a wife and a possible family? 
And even if Barbara is willing to wait so long for 
you, is it quite fair to ask her to? You know how 
it is—an engaged girl can’t go about much with 
other men and—well, it might be rather stupid for 
Barbara, don’t you think?” 

Mrs. Landridge had hit upon the one argument 
that could possibly have moved Jimmy. His at¬ 
tentive face encouraged her to proceed. 

“You really owe it to her, James—a chance to 
meet other men, to form new friendships, if only 
to prove her love for you. How else can she be 
sure it’s you she’s in love with—” 

Jimmy laughed shortly. “Well, who, then?” 
with savage disregard for the niceties of English 
speech. 

“Why, no one, dear; it’s just that sometimes, 
when one is young—one falls in love with love, and 
thinks—” 

Jimmy laughed again, but without mirth. In 
love with love, he and Barbara! Huh! If it felt 
like that to be in love with love, what must it be 
to love a real woman? .... He wondered, 
curiously, about his mother, and the father he 
could but dimly remember; had they ever—cared 
—like this? And if they had, could his mother 


138 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


have forgotten? Could anyone ever forget? 

. . . . His mother was still talking—Gosh! 

What a lot of words spilled around, just for noth¬ 
ing at all! Did she really believe he was going 
to give up Barbara everf 

“—If she really cares, it won’t make any differ¬ 
ence in the end; and if she doesn’t, you both want 
to know it before it’s too late. You’ve been to¬ 
gether ever since you were children; she’s never 
seen anyone else, any more than you have; can’t 
you see it’s the kindest thing for her, as well as 
the wisest for you—just to—er—to drop it, you 
know, for the present?” 

Well there! Nobody could say that Mrs. Land- 
ridge had shirked her plain duty in the matter, 
however hard it was to do! 

“But, Mother!” objected Jimmy, “I can’t 
just ‘drop it,’ as you say. After—tonight”— 
there was a queer little catch in his voice—“if I 
did that I’d be—just a rotten cad; what else could 
Barbara think? Mother—I couldn’t bear that!” 
Down went his head again, miserably, as before. 

“But I’m sure—Barbara is so fine, so sensible— 
if you put it to her in the right way—” 

“But, Mother, I’ll have no chance to see her!” 

“Write, then. Do it tonight. And, James, I 
want to see it—what you write—before you send 
it.” 

Jimmy hesitated. A fellow might write things 
to his girl that he wouldn’t want even his mother 
to read! 

‘ ‘ I know it isn’t going to be easy to write such 
a letter,” Mrs. Landridge went on; “but life 
brings many hard tasks—it wasn’t easy for me to 
give up my plans for you—the singing, I mean. I 
can’t help believing that you would have sue- 



ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


139 


ceeded, after all. But I did give it up; and I 
haven’t made it hard, have I, for you to take up 
this other work you’ve set your heart on?” 

“You’ve been a brick, Mother; you know I real¬ 
ize that and appreciate it with all my heart!” 

“I’m sure of it, dear, so that’s all right; I want 
you to do the work you ’ll be happiest in, of course. 
But one thing you must do: you must succeed! I 
wanted you to be a great singer, you know; but if 
you’re going to be an—an architect”—to this day 
Mrs.. Landridge was unable to give the word full 
dignity of utterance, but spoke it half apologeti¬ 
cally—“an architect instead, then at least you 
must be a great architect. I do believe the one 
thing in the world that I utterly despise is failure! 
A man fails usually because he’s lazy or stupid, or 
has bad habits or a bad disposition; though to 
hear him tell it, it’s always his everlasting bad 
luck, or his family, and he never had a chance 
anyhow. Do, for goodness ’ sake, keep out of that 
class, James!” 

Jimmy replied, dutifully, that he’d try; but his 
mother deemed it advisable to be rather more ex¬ 
plicit, and spoke again of the stupidity of wasting 
time and opportunity on a love affair which 
couldn’t possibly be consummated for years and 
years—to say nothing of Barbara’s side of it! 

“And about the letter, my dear, and the reason 
I must see it—” she finished briskly, “I merely 
want to make sure it sets you free to do your work, 
without hurting the little girl—er—unnecessarily. 
It will take tact to write that letter, James—tact 
and frankness—” 

“Well—” The slow, toneless monosyllable held 
defeat, surrender, and utter weariness. Jimmy 
went half way to the door, then came back to kiss 



140 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


his mother good-night. Usually he took the stairs 
three at a bound, but tonight he ascended slowly, 
heavily, like an old man; all the eager^ vibrant 
youth seemed to be gone out of him—his spirit 
was as leaden as his feet. 

Ah, well, never mind; youth’s sorrows are 
short-lived; this boy-love was but boy-love after 
all, and the present hurt would be more than com¬ 
pensated by the future gain. Thus Jimmy’s 
mother, quieting the half-doubts that began to 
stir uneasily beneath her sureness. Oh, it would 
be all right, of course! Just now the boy was 
sorely troubled; that was natural, but time would 
give him a better perspective, and he would thank 
her in the end. Oh, assuredly it w r ould be all right, 
bye and bye. 

Jimmy’s light burned far into the still hours. 
His waste-basket overflowed with the torn and 
crumpled by-products of his sorry task. But at 
last it was done, and he turned in for what was 
left of the night, tired as his vigorous young body 
never had been tired before, wdiolly exhausted by 
his gamut of unaccustomed emotions. Straight¬ 
way he fell into such depths of slumber that even 
the violent clamor of his alarm clock, an hour or 
so later, failed to bring him to the surface. 

Waking tardily, what with his own hasty 
preparations for departure and his mother’s 
hurry and preoccupation, there was no time for 
more than a word as Jimmy put into her hand the 
closely written pages. “You see that she gets it, 
if it’s all right, Mother,” he said, flushing with 
embarrassment. His mother assented, relieved 
that last night’s storm, apparently, had quite 
blown over. 


ANANIAS' DAUGHTER 


141 


She had a heartache of her own to attend to 
after he was gone, the age-old heartache of the 
mothers of men as their sons go out from the home 
nest to live life as they find it, or make it. Chicago 
she knew by statistics to be a very great city, and 
by repute to be a very wicked one. Much might 
there befall a young man far from home and its 
influences. There would be experiences, tempta¬ 
tions, perhaps—yes, it was long before Mrs. Land- 
ridge felt equal to the reading of Jimmy’s re¬ 
nunciation, and it was with a heavy heart that she 
turned to it at last. If only he had succeeded in 
making his meaning clear! . . . . She found 

that he had, beyond a doubt! Though it wasn’t 
precisely his mother’s meaning, after all! 

In halting, awkward phrases, showing only too 
plainly his pain and disappointment, Jimmy had 
poured out his whole boyish heart, passionately, 
imploringly, to the girl he loved. He revelled in 
the delicious sadness of young heartbreak. He 
explained at length his mother’s views, begging 
Barbara to understand and to forgive. 

“Mother was fine about letting me do the work 
I like, and giving up the music and all and so if 
she thinks we are too young to be engaged and 
wait so long, it seems like I had to give in to her 
about it. You and I know it can’t make any real 
difference with us. Nothing can do that, dear, as 
long as you’re my girl, like you said. Mother 
thinks I ought to do as she wants anyway till I’m 
twenty-one, and not see each other much or write, 
as that would take my mind from my work. And 
she says you ought to have a chance to get 
acquainted with other fellows so we wouldn’t be 
finding out after it was too late that you liked 
somebody else better. But I’m not worried about 


142 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


that, because you said you were my girl; so what¬ 
ever you do in that line will be 0. K. with me, 
absolutely. Of course, I want you to have a good 
time, and if I was such a suspicious fool that I 
couldn’t trust a girl like you, that I’ve known and 
loved all my life, I wouldn’t deserve to have you.” 

Well, so far, so good. A boy’s letter to his girl. 
A trifle more fervent than was absolutely neces¬ 
sary, perhaps, but one had to make some allow¬ 
ance for James’ state of mind. Mrs. Landridge 
turned a page. Why! What in the world! 

. . . . The rest of the letter was as though 
written by another hand, conceived by another 
brain, rooted in another heart. It was as if 
Jimmy, nineteen, half boy and half man, had 
begun the letter as a boy, and under stress of his 
emotion, had grown to full manhood in the writ¬ 
ing of it. A man’s letter, now, to the woman he 
loved! 

“—Oh, my Barbara girl, how can I get through 
these two years till I am twenty-one, without the 
sight of you or the touch of you, after what we 
learned tonight! . . . Darling, did you know 

love was like that! ... I shall try to see you 
at Christmas. I haven’t actually promised not 
to see you at all, but even if I should I don’t sup¬ 
pose I can say the things I want to. But I’ll save 
them all up, sweetheart ; and right here and now 
I’m making a date with you for the third of 
October, two years from now, my 21st birthday, 
and then I’ll say them all and a thousand more, if 
you will listen, dear. ”... He wanted her to 
go about and have a good time while he was away, 
not to mope or worry, but be happy always. She 
must not consider herself bound beyond her in¬ 
clination; as for himself, he would never cease to 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


143 


think of her and love her; he was hers, body and 
soul, absolutely, unalterably— 

You can see for yourself, that letter would 
never do! Here was James, supposed to disen¬ 
gage himself gently but definitely from the bonds 
woven of youth and moonlight, but instead chain¬ 
ing himself anew, tightening his fetters with 
dreadful irrevokableness. No, clearly it wouldn’t 
do at all. He would have to write another and 
much, much less ardent one. Mrs. Landridge 
would tell him so, very positively, when she wrote. 
Oh, dear, what a nuisance! She had supposed 
that matter settled. Oh, dear! And until she 
heard from him she could do nothing— 

Jimmy’s first communication was the time- 
honored one of boys just gone away to college; a 
postcard with scribbled pencilling, thus: “Dear 
Mother, arrived safe, will write more when I get 
settled some place. I think I shall need some more 
money soon. Your son, J. W. L.” No date, no 
address. Nothing to do but wait a while longer. 

At the end of an uneasy week came a second 
hasty note from Jimmy, imploring her to send on 
in a hurry certain forgotten articles, which she 
answered with one almost as hurried, explaining 
that his tan shoes were certainly in his trunk, for 
she had packed them herself; and the coat to his 
brown suit—didn’t he remember? He had taken 
it to the tailor’s to have the collar altered; it 
wasn’t finished, she had ascertained, but the man 
promised to send it next week. And Jimmy would 
have to buy himself a new tennis racket, because 
she had found his where he had left it as a prop 
under the attic window, and it had rained and the 
racket was warped out of shape, to say nothing 


144 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


of the guest-room ceiling all stained—such a mess! 
How could he he so careless! 

Reference to the Letter didn’t seem to fit in, al¬ 
together, with these mundane matters; and 
Jimmy’s mother decided to let it go till next time. 
But when the boy’s next letter arrived, full of con¬ 
trition about the guest-room ceiling and her bother 
over the coat; and yes, she was right about the 
shoes—she was down with “one of her head¬ 
aches,” and wrote but briefly in reply. Then came 
Cousin Camilla Winslow up from Charleston for 
a visit, and Mrs. Landridge must entertain her 
fittingly. She gave a luncheon and an afternoon 
of progressive whist, and several times took 
Cousin Camilla up to the city in order to show her 
Grace Church and Fifth Avenue, and to do the • 
museums, both Art and Natural History; to gasp 
at the wonders of Tiffany’s and browse among the 
new books at Brentano’s, to lunch modestly at the 
new Waldorf-Astoria, to shop at Vantine’s and in 
the big Twenty-third Street stores, to see some of 
the new plays and even vaudeville; for Cousin 
Camilla, though older than Mrs. Landridge, was 

frivolous that way.Cousin Camilla 

stayed three weeks, and had a perfectly wonderful 
time! 

And still the Letter lay hidden in Esther Land¬ 
ridge ’s desk, at intervals prodding her conscience, 
but less insistently as the days went by; till at last 
she came to believe that the matter wasn’t so very 
pressing after all. Why not wait until the holi¬ 
days and talk it over with James then! It would 
be so much more satisfactory than writing, and 
the interval would give opportunity for calming 
reflection—on his part. She, of course, was al¬ 
ways calm. 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


145 


If she had moments of wondering how James 
was going to take it, she smothered the thought. 
Christmas was two whole months away, and Mrs. 
Landridge didn’t believe in crossing bridges at 
that distance. Almost anything could happen in 
two months. Perhaps she might not have to men¬ 
tion it to him at all, till time had turned his boyish 
fancy in some other direction; better still, in 
other directions—that comforting safety which to 
mothers of marriageable sons, lies in very num¬ 
bers. Doubtless it was all for the best; James 
would thank her when he came to his senses; the 
very way to break off a troublesome affair was 
to let it wear off; better a few months of unhappi¬ 
ness now than a lifetime of disillusionment, 
mediocrity and regret. They’d get over it, and 
the sea is full of fish. Having thus smoothed away 
the joint troubles of James and his Barbara, Mrs. 
Landridge felt much better, very much better 
indeed. 

Out of a lifetime of experiences, it is curious to 
note which ones are remembered and cherished, 
and which, of equal importance or unimportance, 
will sink into the oblivion of the years; how one 
man will count his achievements, another his fail¬ 
ures; how this woman will string a rosary of 
friends, of lovers or of happy days, while that one 
accumulates a mental scrapbook of death notices 
and disasters. Esther Landridge could have de¬ 
scribed her wedding dress to the last inch of satin 
and lace, but she had forgotten the very name 
of the seamstress who made it; she didn’t remem¬ 
ber exactly what Homer had said when he pro¬ 
posed, but she did remember what a time they had 
getting the engagement ring altered to fit, and how 
in consequence she hadn’t much more than a week 
in which to wear it, before the wedding; she could 


146 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


not recall a word of Mr. Seabrooke’s comforting 
utterances after Homer’s funeral, but she knew 
how many carriages there were and who had sent 
flowers; she remembered that Senator Harris ’ son 
once asked her hand in marriage, but had the very 
dimmest recollection of the fourth assistant book¬ 
keeper in the First National Bank who had as¬ 
pired to the same high honor. And she had for¬ 
gotten, utterly and entirely, a certain odd little 
feeling of warmth about her girlish heart, which 
Homer Landridge alone could evoke. As she re¬ 
membered it, she had preferred him to Frank 
Harris because he was better looking—so very 
tall and distinguished, and because all the young 
ladies of her set would have given their ears to 
be in her shoes when he came a-wooing. She had 
loved him, of course, comfortably and sedately; 
he had been so kind always, and so considerate. 
But of Jimmy’s passionate yearning tenderness 
towards his girl-love, of the rapturous delirium of 
that first embrace, and the total nothingness of all 
else in the world beside, she had neither knowl¬ 
edge nor understanding. 

Sheltered by circumstance, Esther Landridge 
had lived much on the surface; her love for her 
son was the deepest emotion she had ever known, 
and that was so intertwined with her pride in and 
ambition for him that her impulses were some¬ 
times hard to classify. She did not intend to do 
a mean nor dishonorable thing. She did not want 
to hurt Barbara Ann nor cause her son unhappi¬ 
ness. She honestly believed that this was a simple 
case of puppy-love, a boy-and-girl attachment 
over which both would laugh in years to come, 

rejoicing in their mutual escape.Mrs. 

Landridge never did get around to talk to James 
about that letter, after all! 


XII 


“What! No letter from Jim yet, Toodles?” 
quizzed Uncle Ben in mock concern, about a week 
after Jimmy’s departure. 

A week didn’t really seem a very long time to 
Uncle Ben, but Barbara answered with a serious¬ 
ness that made him look sharply at her from 
beneath his shaggy brows, and to pucker his 
mouth for a whistle and then not whistle after all. 
All that week Barbara had been, as it were, among 
them but not of them. Occasionally she came 
down from the rosy heights whereon she dwelt, 
and affectionately anxious to make amends for 
previous neglect, proceeded to tangle the threads 
of Aunt Cindy’s housekeeping till that long-suffer¬ 
ing lady was in despair, and good-naturedly 
shooed the blunderer out of the kitchen and finally 
out of the house. 

Barbara then took refuge in the summer-house, 
where none might see and wonder at her, kneeling 
there on the soft moss, her cheek pressed against 
the old wooden bench where a boyish jack-knife 
had twined a J and an L, a B and a T with fan¬ 
tastic art. She closed her eyes, the better to re¬ 
call the look in Jimmy’s as he said that last good¬ 
night; she clasped her hands tightly, seeming to 
feel Jimmy’s enclosing fingers about them; back 
she floated to her glorious mountaintop of joy— 

“Dear me, dear me! A whole week, and no 
letter yet!” mused Uncle Ben at the supper table. 
And down came Barbara Ann with a crash. Why, 
Jimmy was to have written the very minute he 

147 


148 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


found a boarding place; sooner, if there should be 
any delay in getting a permanent address. At the 
latest, his letter should have reached her yester¬ 
day; there must have been something unforeseen. 
But tomorrow, surely! 

“He won’t write until he gets settled some¬ 
where,” she excused him to Uncle Ben. “Of 
course, he’s going to be awfully busy for a while, 
getting started in college and all—” 

And so it appeared, as the days grew into weeks 
and still not a word from the boy. Barbara, sore¬ 
ly puzzled, hardly knew whether to be hurt or 
angry. Jimmy might have written—letters had 
been known to go astray—but surely he would 
have written again when he found she didn’t 
answer. She could not write to him:, having no 
address; and she couldn’t ask anyone for it—cer¬ 
tainly not Mrs. Landridge, nor Mr. Nichols, nor 
even Amory. She couldn’t have anyone know 
that Jimmy wasn’t writing to her. Even though 
by some subterfuge she obtained his address Bar¬ 
bara wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to use it, 
now. Jimmy had promised to write; tvhy hadn’t 
he? What had happened? What had she done 
to anger him, what that he could have misunder¬ 
stood? 

For the thousandth time she went over in her 
mind every word, every slightest incident of their 
last evening together. She thrilled again to the 
memory of his kisses, felt once more the rapture 
of love confessed, saw again his adoring face as 
he stood at the gate in the moonlight. No, in¬ 
deed, Jimmy had not been angry with her then! 
It couldn’t be—oh, it could not be, that he hadn’t 
meant it after all! Jimmy wouldn’t do that, her 
Jimmy, the best pal a girl ever had. Even if he 



ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 149 

didn’t really care, he never would hurt her like 
that! 

Some imp of perversity flashed before her a re¬ 
membered incident of the previous winter. She 
had been skating late one afternoon, and intent 
upon one last darting flight ere the early winter 
twilight should force her to hurry home, she had 
outstripped the others and was skimming over the 
ice near the cove where the boys used to swim in 
summer, when she felt the loosening of a skate. 
Turning abruptly to the shore, she had almost 
collided with a couple standing in the shelter of 
the point. They were 4 ‘Piggy” Wilson and one 
of the Lorimer girls, and he was “ kissing the face 
off her,” as Barbara noted with sharp distaste. 
With a confused apology she hurried back around 
the point to adjust the refractory skate, and might 
have forgotten the incident had not ‘ 4 Piggy” ap¬ 
proached her the following day, asking her to 
skate with him. To her somewhat curt refusal he 
had rejoined, “Aw, say, Barb’ra, you needn’t 
have it in for me—about yesterday, you know; I 
was just practicin’!” 

Oh, it was absurd, it was monstrous, to believe 
that of Jimmy. Barbara didn’t, of course; yet the 
thought stuck— 

So she worried and fretted in her little pink- 
and-white room, and came forth to hold her head 
higher than ever. No one should know that any¬ 
thing had gone amiss in her scheme of happiness! 
Most of all she was glad, glad that she hadn’t told 
anyone yet, not even Aunt Cindy, about Jimmy 
and herself. 

But Aunt Cindy, at least, wasn’t so easily hood¬ 
winked. She knew Barbara’s bright eyes never 
dimmed with tears without a reason; and Uncle 



150 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Ben, too, saw that the child was troubled. They 
talked of it one night in their room. 

“If that young jackanapes has been making a 
fool of our baby—” growled Uncle Ben. Aunt 
Cindy didn’t think so. “It was all right until he 
went away, and we know he hasn’t written. Some¬ 
thing's happened, and it’s my opinion it’s that 
tine-lady mother of his!” Aunt Cindy’s scorn of 
Mrs. Landridge and her ways dated from the 
children’s crabbing days, and had not diminished 
perceptibly since. 

“Fine lady, your grandmother!” retorted 
Uncle Ben with more force than gallantry. “But, 
Cindy, how could she have contrived to turn the 
boy against Barbara, even if she’d wanted to? 
And why the Sam Hill should she want to, any¬ 
way? That’s what I can’t see, for the life of me! ’ ’ 

In truth there appeared little enough reason for 
such a belief, for Mrs. Landridge seemed of late to 
go quite out of her way to be nice to them all, while 
her manner toward Barbara was almost affection¬ 
ate. Barbara was pleased and vaguely comforted, 
as, perhaps, the older woman meant her to be. 
Barbara wanted Jimmy’s mother to like her, ir¬ 
respective of the fact that Jimmy himself appar¬ 
ently didn’t, any more; but not a step would she 
go toward the one nor the other. If she were to 
meet Jimmy tomorrow, she wouldn’t so much as 
ask him why he hadn’t written, though her heart 
broke with wanting to know; and you’d just better 
believe she wasn’t going to do any gushing over 
Jimmy’s mother, the way Stella Martine did, for 
instance. Barbara was proud. Well, yes, a little 
bit stubborn, perhaps; but she knew, now, whether 
to be angry or hurt. She was both, and in no 
slight degree. So she sought no word of Jimmy, 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


151 


and in place of “gushing over” his mother, leaned 
rather the other way, letting Mrs. Landridge 
make the advances, and responding not too 
eagerly. 

In fact Barbara, obeying a certain instinct of 
reserve, had ever held serenely aloof from 
Jimmy's home life. Even when he was at home 
she rarely went there, never unless there was a 
crowd, though Jimmy teased her endlessly to 
“c’mon up and see Mom." Stella, on the other 
hand, “liking" Jimmy but finding him unrespon¬ 
sive, was inclined to “take it out on" his mother; 
more than ever now that he was away. 

A clinging vine was Stella, with a perennial 
retinue of young men to fetch and carry, to kill 
that horrible spider—ugh!—and to go walking 
with her and assure her that there couldn’t pos¬ 
sibly be any snakes. Girls bored her, except those 
with attractive male relatives; and when she was 
forced to endure their society for a season, her 
eyes would take on a certain far-away look that 
the approach of masculinity alone could banish. 
At dances she was all sparkle, and did coy things 
with her fan; she studied the tastes of her admir¬ 
ers, and was daring, provocative, alluring, or 
sweet, demure and domestic, according to require¬ 
ments, and most of “the fellows" were strongly 
“for" her—for a time. A few there were whom 
she never had been able to reach; perhaps as Ted 
Rossiter said, she mixed her signals. Ted was 
one of them, and Jimmy another, and Amory 
Booth. And of them all, the ones who came at her 
call and the ones who didn’t, she liked Jimmy 
best. 

Not an especially pretty girl—her face was too 
weak, her features too indeterminate for real 


152 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


beauty—slie passed as such, in general; for she 
was of that effervescent type which “lights up” 
well, especially in the evening and in masculine 
society. Stella in a bathing suit, swimming with 
a crowd of girls, w r as downright homely! 

Except her hands. Stella’s hands were beauti¬ 
ful in any company, and having rather more than 
an inkling of the fact, she made the most of them. 
Gloves she never wore; even a muff, to Stella, 
meant not warmth so much as opportunity for 
graceful gesturings with a background of rich, 
dark fur. Then, when beauty alone proved in¬ 
sufficient protection from icy blasts, what more 
natural than to warm their loveliness discreetly 
between ardent masculine palms ? 

Generally speaking, of course. Just once she 
tried it on Jimmy. “Huh! Cold? Should think 
they would be! Whyn’t you put ’em in your muff, 
then, ’stead of wavin’ ’em in the air like a ninny?” 

Yes, Stella’s hands were undeniably beautiful; 
so Barbara didn’t attempt to deny it, but disliked 
them, beauty and all—their smooth slimness, that 
curious suggestion of drooping weakly at the 
wrists. Hands, in fact, were a sort of mild obses¬ 
sion with Barbara. They fascinated her as a 
child, and as she grew older she began, half con¬ 
sciously, to associate certain kinds of hands with 
certain kinds of people.- There were Aunt 
Cindy’s, small and plump, yet with an effect of 
strength and capability. Jimmy had fine hands, 
too; large and shapely and flexible, without a trace 
of fat, yet not raw-boned and ugly; Barbara loved 
to watch the smooth play of the muscles beneath 
the skin. Barbara’s own hands were slender, but 
strong and never very white; she herself thought 
them far from handsome, yet every line and ges- 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 153 

ture spoke of both delicacy and force, of sincerity 
and a generous heart. 

Barbara never had been quite sure whether 
Stella’s pretty helplessness was a matter of per¬ 
sonality or of pose; but she had to admit that 
many people found it attractive. Even Mrs. 
Landridge, apparently, for Stella was there a 
great deal. It seemed to Barbara, on the rare 
occasions when she could bring herself to accept 
one of Mrs. Landridge’s frequent invitations, that 
Stella was always there, drooping prettily about 
with an air of demure proprietorship that was 
maddening. It filled Barbara with a kind of 
fury to see the other so much at home in that 
house, handling familiarly, almost caressingly, 
things that were Jimmy’s. 

Even without Stella’s presence, it was hard 
enough for Barbara to go to Jimmy’s house, hard 
to keep up her gallant pretense of happiness be¬ 
fore Jimmy’s mother, in the rooms where he 
had lived, the very furniture instinct with his 
presence—his picture on the desk, his books, the 
chair he liked, his place at table. Yet when she did 
go, she succeeded so well that Mrs. Landridge 
caught herself wondering whether, perhaps, 
James had broken his word and was writing to 
Barbara after all. But no, that would be most 
unlike James; he would be apt, rather, to serve 
candid and conspicuous notice of any intended dis¬ 
obedience. Of course, there was the chance that 
Barbara might write to him, demanding explana¬ 
tions; had already done so, perhaps, though in 
that case James would certainly have passed the 
demand on to his mother; so in the end she con¬ 
cluded that the girl didn’t really care, after all. 

Barbara certainly gave no intimation to any of 



154 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


her friends that all was not serene between her¬ 
self and Jimmy. To the frequent, “Well, Bar¬ 
bara, what do you hear from Jim?” she would 
make careless answer, “Oh, he’s too busy to write 
much”; replying gaily to the badinage of irre¬ 
pressible youth, “Sure, I get one every day; two 
or three of ’em, some days! ’ ’ 

Jimmy, meanwhile, between office and univer¬ 
sity was learning many things about hard work 
that heretofore had been largely hearsay; but he 
was enjoying it mightily. And this in face of the 
fact that life was an arid waste, uncheered by 
written words of love and hope and encourage¬ 
ment from the one girl who really counted in the 
feminine population of the world. 

He met girls a-plenty, for Jimmy was the sort 
of young fellow that just naturally gets taken 
home and introduced to the family; nice girls, too, 
in their way, and willing to do their little best in 
the way of needed cheering-up. His chief invited 
him to dinner, and the Harper twins, each a soul¬ 
ful sixteen, greatly admired his air of courteous 
detachment, and told each other that he was by far 
the most m-trusting man they had ever met; and 
had Leo noticed what perfect pools of sadness his 
eyes were; and didn’t Theo believe he had at 
some time had some awf’ly heart-shattering ex¬ 
perience, the scars of which he was carrying to 
the grave? 

Both Leo and Theo—Leonora, you see, and 
Theodora—thought they ought to do what they 
could to lighten his burden of grief; so what with 
one thing and another, Jimmy became quite cheer¬ 
ful after a time, and had to remind himself, with 
bitterness, that he was a man tortured by unjust 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


155 


separation from the woman he loved. Then he 
would go about with beetling brows and heavy 
mein, till he brought down upon himself the good- 
natured joshing of the fellows at the house— 
sultry maledictions on the son-of-a-gun who, pre¬ 
sumably, had put salt in Jimmy’s morning coffee; 
tearful commiseration because of a belief that 
his girl had presented him with an object referred 
to as an icy eyebrow; rude adjurations to g’wan 
back upstairs and put on his other face; and other 
scintillating remarks of like nature—and Jimmy’s 
scowl would be utterly lost in the ensuing rough- 
house. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep a dole¬ 
ful expression long in place on that frank and 
friendly face of his; it was forever slipping and 
showing the cheerful grin beneath. 

After all, things weren’t so bad. He had the 
remembrance of his letter to Barbara to help him 
over the hard places; and what a comfort it was 
to know that she understood, and would keep faith 
with him through years of silence and separation, 
if need be! Never for an instant did he doubt 
that. Nor, after the first rebellious outburst, did 
he seriously question his mother’s wisdom; only 
it did seem as if a letter now and then—oh, well, 
maybe she was right, at that; he supposed if he 
did have one he’d spend hours mooning over it, 
as she had said, and, of course, he couldn’t afford 
that. Nothing must delay him on his march to 
success; not even love itself, for love was his goal, 
the price of his mightiest effort; love—and Bar¬ 
bara^— 

Ah, but there were some hard places to get over, 
days and nights when he had to fight homesickness 
and a desperate longing for “his girl.” More 
and more he lived in the thought of the approach- 


156 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


ing holidays, planning what he should say to Bar¬ 
bara when they met, wondering whether one little 
kiss, accidental-like, would do real violence to his 
promise, and half resolving to take it anyhow if 
he got the chance, and settle the ethics of the case 

afterward.And then in the midst of 

all his happy planning came a letter from his 
mother, saying that she had decided to spend 
Christmas in Chicago with him! 

Jimmy’s hopes flattened like a child’s toy bal¬ 
loon, heavily sat upon by some large, careless 
grown-up. Despair charged down upon him, rode 
him from his classes to the office and from the 
office to his room, sat all night upon his chest, 
erased every sign of his familiar grin—perma¬ 
nently, it was feared by Leo and Theo, fairly 
aching with sympathy. Gee, it was tough! He’d 
played fair, and now what? Of course, his mother 
hadn’t promised, but Jimmy had been hoping she 
might relent, just a little, by Christmas time. 
Merely to see Barbara would be something! How 
could he, how could he wait until far-off June for 
the sight of his girl, the hoped-for whispered word 
that should renew their ecstasy and fortify them 
for another eternity of separation! 

Barbara’s dominant feeling was one almost of 
relief, when Mrs. Landridge told her of their 
changed plans. She managed a very creditable 
smile, and a cordial, “oh, won’t that be jolly for 
you both! ’ ’ and when asked whether she wished to 
send any message to James, she replied, “oh, no, 
thank you, except that I hope he likes his work 
and is getting on fine! ’ ’ 

“Well, one sure thing,” thought Jam'es’ mother, 
“there’s no heartbreak here!” A matter quite 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


157 


beyond her ken was Barbara’s stubborn pride, 
which permitted no downcast face to point the way 
to her downcast heart! 


XIII 


Aunt Cindy was more discerning. With the 
approach of summer she saw Barbara grow so 
restless, so broodingly unhappy, that she was 
really worried. The child was thin and irritable, 
and most unlike herself in every way; had no 
appetite—and when within a week of Jimmy’s 
expected return, she begged to go away; oh, any¬ 
where, just for a change, sort of a vacation, you 
know—it was decided that she should accept the 
long-standing and oft-repeated invitation of the 
Hanchell relatives “up York State,” to visit these 
cousins whom she never had seen. 

Grandma’s people, they were; Grandma’s 
brother, Greatuncle ’Lias Hanchell, and his spin¬ 
ster daughter Savory; the children of Greatuncle 
’Lihu and Greatuncle James, and of Greataunt 
Lavinia Beebe and Greataunt Margaret, who 
married a Loveland; and their children and chil¬ 
dren’s children unto the third and fourth genera¬ 
tion of Hanchell kin, whose ramifications soon 
proved too much for Barbara Ann, and she ac¬ 
cepted without question Cousin Milly and Cousin 
Adelaide and Cousin Howard and Cousin George 
and Cousin this and Cousin that, as they were pre¬ 
sented. It was a brand-new experience for Bar¬ 
bara Ann; the Ferrisses apparently had been 
much less prolific! 

There was rejoicing in Littledale over the 
pretty young cousin from “Jersey.” She was 
petted and passed about from Hanchell to Han¬ 
chell, to make a visit with that one and with this 

158 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


159 


one; and when she had gone around once and had 
begun to talk of returning home, they insisted on 
a second series of visits by way of farewell. It 
seemed to Barbara that in the course of the sum¬ 
mer she was a guest in nearly every house in the 
village, and she readily understood why the place 
had been known as Hanchelltown before the rail¬ 
road “went through,” and painted “Littledale” 
in big white letters over the station door. 

What delightful people they were, these York 
State relatives of hers! What unstinting hospi¬ 
tality was theirs! What cooks they were, the 
women! and what jolly chaps, the men! Barbara 
laughed, and ate, and laughed again, till she grew 
almost fat, and began to fear that she daren’t stay 
any longer lest she get to be as fat as Cousin 
Rufus Beebe, the jolliest of them all, and his wife 
’Liza, the best cook—by a very narrow margin! 
Ah! Cousin ’Liza’s butternut cake, three stories 
high, with a very mansard roof of icing—food for 
the gods! But then there was Cousin Emily’s 
strawberry shortcake; not, let me tell you, one of 
these affairs of sponge cake, and whipped cream, 
with a lonely berry or two, but great rounds of 
flaky shortbread, split and buttered and piled one 
upon another, with slathers of berries swimming 
in their own juice! And Aunt Harriet’s graham 
“gems,” all crusty and piping hot from the “gem 
irons” that had been in the family for genera¬ 
tions; not common round ones like Aunt Cindy’s, 
but shaped like little hollow cylinders split in two 
lengthwise. And there was Cousin Marcia’s— 
but pshaw! what’s the use ? They have two baker¬ 
ies in Littledale now, and a delicatessen counter 
in the meat market! 

It was distinctly soothing to Barbara’s out- 


160 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


raged pride to find that somebody liked her, even 
though Jimmy didn’t, any more; and not all the 
somebodies who did, and didn’t care who knew it, 
were Hanchells; indeed no! There was young 
Doctor MacKenzie, who that very June had come 
straight from his interneship at St. Mark’s, in 
New York, to assist his father, old Doctor Mac¬ 
Kenzie, with the country practice which his 
seventy years were beginning to find a little too 
strenuous. Young Doctor MacKenzie was home¬ 
sick for “the Big Town”—which he never had 
seen till he was twenty! But Littledale was a 
slow place, after six years in New York; and 
while Barbara herself wasn’t in the least home¬ 
sick, she was willing to do what she could to con¬ 
sole one who was. The young doctor soon cheered 
up amazingly, and began to talk of settling per¬ 
manently in Littledale; after all, a doctor in a 
little town had opportunities for service that his 
city brother couldn’t have; he became a vital part 
of the community life—why, a country practice 
could be no end of a big thing! 

All this young Doctor MacKenzie discovered at 
about the same time that it occurred to him that 
Barbara’s presence beside him on the high seat of 
his smart dog-cart, as he made his rounds, lent to 
the day an added glory, and caused the very sun 
to shine more brightly, and the birds to carol 
more joyously in his ears. 

Barbara appreciated the distinction conferred 
upon her; but so great was her fear of the tall, 
lively sorrel he drove, that she chose to forego 
the pleasure when she decently could. For to Bar¬ 
bara Ann, water-wise, fearing nothing propelled 
by fin or oar or sail, a horse was an outlandish 
beast altogether outside her experience, and sure 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


161 


to do alarming and incomprehensible things if 
left in her charge, as when the doctor was making 
a professional call. So ashamed was she of this 
fear, however, that she would scarcely have ad¬ 
mitted it under torture, but each time accepted the 
reins with outward nonchalance and inward quak¬ 
ing, trying to look as if she and “Bobby Irish” 
were on the friendliest of terms; but after two or 
three nerve-wrecking sessions, devoted by Bobby 
to clamping his tail over the reins, trying to turn 
around in the shafts, and eating the hollyhocks in 
the patient’s dooryard, and by Barbara to a 
frantic endeavor to frustrate these and Bobby’s 
many other knavish tricks, she had a happy 
thought: four-leaved clovers! Thereafter, at each 
stop she insisted on hunting them by the roadside; 
which necessitated tying the troublesome quad¬ 
ruped to hitching post or convenient tree, at which 
he nibbled contentedly enough while Barbara pur¬ 
sued her search. The first week netted her forty- 
one specimens; but that was of little moment com¬ 
pared to the immeasurable relief she felt, and 
freedom! from equine eccentricities. 

There was one day when the young doctor called 
her from her task to help him apply splints and 
bandages to a boy’s broken leg. Her willing fin¬ 
gers seemed slow and clumsy beside his deft sure¬ 
ness, but she glowed with his praise when it was 
done. Another time he asked her if she would 
come in and make toast and egg-nog for his 
patient, an irascible old lady whose first intel¬ 
ligible speech, following a slight paralysis, had 
been a venomous ‘‘Git outa here!” addressed to 
her nurse. She was still muttering something 
that sounded like ‘ ‘ Twenny dolls a week! Twenny 
dolls a week!” when Barbara entered, but inter- 


162 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


rupted her plaint to hurl maledictions at this new 
intruder. Barbara, however, reassured by an off¬ 
side wink from the doctor, went ahead, glad to 
her very toes that Aunt Cindy had taught her to 
cook! And what is more, she coaxed the old lady 
to sip the egg-nog and nibble the toast; and told 
her one of Uncle Ben’s funny stories, while the old 
lady kept on sipping and nibbling, without mean¬ 
ing to, till she had sipped and nibbled them all up! 

Driving home, young Doctor MacKenzie asked 
Barbara why she didn’t take up nursing. Bar¬ 
bara didn’t know—had never thought about it, 
she said; but mentally she added, “Well, I don’t 
know—if Jimmy—” 

They talked of it, young Doctor MacKenzie 
enthusiastic, Barbara increasingly interested; but 
the brilliant young idea was destined to die 
a-bornin’. Nurses, Barbara decided, must be 
made of stuff more heroic than mere willingness 
and a broken heart! 

It was as they drove slowly toward the village 
one afternoon, the day’s routine of calls des¬ 
patched earlier than usual. Old Doctor MacKen¬ 
zie took care of the office calls and village cases, 
and young Doctor MacKenzie was in no hurry; 
for all about him was a glorious summer day, and 
beside him a glorious girl. Life was sweet, life 
was joyous. Tomorrow, if it liked, life might be 
real, might be earnest; but today— 

“Beats the bugs” observed young Doctor Mac¬ 
Kenzie, pointing lazily with the whip, “how one 
of these dagoes will take a few acres that two or 
three generations of Yankee farmers have all but 
starved on, and make it look like that! That’s 
the old Medway place; Zenas Medway—he was 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


163 


the last of ’em—he died over at the county farm, 
along in the spring. ’ ’ 

b The field he indicated spread its acre or so be¬ 
side the road, a square of brown mathematically 
polka-dotted with the tender green of young cab¬ 
bages. Not a weed could be seen; the plants them¬ 
selves looked as though each had been trimmed 
and molded into the exact similitude of all the 
rest; no ragged leaves, no sprawling, lopsided 
heads, no crippled stalks. 

“I’ll bet there isn’t a cabbage-worm in the 
whole patch! ” he went on; “ and when that fellow 
—name’s Peperini or something like that—har¬ 
vests his crop, he ’ll get as much again as the man 
on the next place. And yet we want to 1 Ameri¬ 
canize’ ’em!” 

Barbara thought it likely that the late rem¬ 
nant of the Medway line had been rather less 
energetic than the esteemed Signor Peperini, who 
probably rose at dawn to groom his cabbage 
patch; and the doctor agreed: “Yep! There’s 
Tony now; the personification of energy, I’d say. 
Wonder if that’s his usual gait?” 

They watched, curiously, the blue-overalled 
figure as it ran out of the yard and down the road 
toward them, stumbling in its ungainly boots, 
haste defeating speed. The man’s shouts reached 
them, incomprehensible; and when he came along¬ 
side, panting and gesticulating, his tongue fell 
over the hard English words into a splashing sea 
of Italian, of which one word, oft repeated, finally 
reached the physician’s consciousness. The word 
was “bambino.” 

The insulted flanks of Bobby Irish responded 
with a burst of speed that all but catapulted Bar¬ 
bara from the cart. She clung frenziedly to the 


164 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


seat as they careened into the Peperini dooryard; 
the reins were pushed into her hands; and ere she 
fairly realized that the doctor had entered the 
house, he was out again, without his coat, scrib¬ 
bling in a notebook as he came, and had taken 
Bobby by the head and turned him around. 

“Drive,” he commanded, “to Wharton’s place 
—the store at the crossroads—and telephone Dad 
to get Mrs. Richards out here quick, and these 
things”—thrusting the scrap of paper into her 
hand. “Tell him it’s Mrs. Peperini—convulsions. 
And drive,” he concluded, “like all hell!” 

He was halfway to the door before the dismayed 
“Oh!” had left her lips; calling back over his 
shoulder, “and get back here quick’s ever you 
can! Here, Tony, get some more wood in here; 
bring some water; hustle!” 

Drive! Drive! And how, in Heaven’s name, 
did one drive? You pulled on the lines, to turn 
right and left; that much she knew. You said 
“whoa!” and “giddap!” Was there anything 
else? That awful horse—oh! She couldn’t, she 
knew she couldn’t! . . . Mrs. Peperini . . . 

convulsions . . . 

‘ ‘ Giddap! ’ ’ quavered Barbara Ann. And to her 
everlasting astonishment, Bobby Irish giddapped! 

Long years afterward Barbara drove a high- 
powered motor car from Red Haven to Pasadena ; 
seven weeks it took, including stops, but it was 
not so long as that mad journey from Peperini’s 
to Wharton’s place, less than a mile away. 
“Drive! Drive like hell!” . . . The high 
cart rocked and rolled behind the leaping feet of 
Bobby Irish. Was she driving him, or was he 
simply running away? Oh, dear Lord, don’t let 
us meet a team or anything! Please don’t let us! 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


165 


. . . That ditch at the side of the road—ten 

feet deep it looked as the wheels skimmed its very 
edge—surely it hadn’t been there when they drove 
out that afternoon! 

Wharton’s at last! Now, whoa! Sure enough, 
Bobby wlioaed! 

Barbara tumbled from her perch, while a lank 
gentleman of the Zenas Medway type shuffled for¬ 
ward to hold the horse, which seemed to have got 
a lot of soapsuds on itself, somehow or other. 
Barbara loved the lank gentleman. She loved him 
still more when she heard him call to another— 
his twin brother, possibly—on the store steps, 
“H-h-h-gosh! She m-musta d-d-d-druv like all 
h-he-he-hell! ’ ’ 

The trip back was shorter ; about as far, say, as 
from Chicago to Denver. A shaking Tony, green¬ 
ish white under his swarthiness, took the sudsy 
sorrel in charge, and Barbara went in; to report, 
she supposed, but found that she was mistaken. 
After all, it gave her rather a thrill to find that 
Doctor MacKenzie took her success so entirely 
for granted. He nodded toward a rough bench 
in the kitchen, where some rudimentary washing 
arrangements were laid out. “ Scrub your hands 
and arms, good, and come in here; and hurry up!” 
he ordered. Barbara’s gasp of horror was lost 
in the closing of the bedroom door! 

“I won’t! I won’t! The idea!” she stormed 
at the dingy panels. . . . Merciful Heaven! 

What was that? ... a sobbing moan, a wail, 
rising to a shriek of agony . . . Barbara 

turned toward the bench, rolling up her sleeves as 
she went! 

The memory of that next half hour haunted 
Barbara Ann for years—a nightmare of dreadful 



166 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


sights and sounds, with Doctor MacKenzie’s in¬ 
cisive voice issuing orders in a tone far removed 
from the careful suavity of his cherished “bed¬ 
side manner”; issuing, to her, such orders as she 
never had thought to hear from anyone! She 
went scarlet with shame and rage. What would 
they all say—Aunt Cindy—and all the cousins— 
and Jimmy—if they knew? For that matter, how 
could she ever again face this—this horrible 
doctor, after thisf She wouldn’t! She’d never 
see him nor speak to him again, never! She would 
go home, right away, tomorrow! Why should she 
do this? She would leave the room this instant! 
Oh, would that nurse, that Richards woman, never 
come? 

Nevertheless she stayed, and obeyed those pre¬ 
posterous commands, understanding at last that 
they two were no longer the man and the girl who 
had jogged so pleasantly along behind Bobby 
Irish, through the golden summer afternoon. 
Now he was the physician, whose case was going 
none too well; she, as Barbara Thair, simply 
didn’t exist. She raged no more, but did her 
blundering best to help him. 

At least she could obey. “Don’t faint!” 
ordered Doctor MacKenzie, near the end of that 
awful half hour. And so she didn’t, though she 
had wanted to, very much indeed! 

Barbara didn’t go home next day. The cousins 
wouldn’t hear of it. So she went, instead, to make 
her promised visit at the old Hanchell homestead 
“out in the country,” as they said in metropolitan 
Littledale. » 

And right there she received “the shock of her 
career,” as she afterward wrote Aunt Cindy; for 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


167 


being welcomed at the door by both Uncle ’Lias 
and his spinster daughter Savory—Aunt Savory 
they called her, though she wasn’t anybody’s aunt, 
really, but merely a first-cousin-once-removed— 
and ushered hospitably into the big, cool sitting- 
room, Barbara found another visitor there before 
her; which same was, of all people—Aunt Anna- 
meel! 

Very much at home she looked, rocking comfort¬ 
ably in what Barbara at first took to be the identi¬ 
cal Boston rocker of her childhood, and which 
really was equally ancient, equally shabby—its 
very twin, in fact. And strangely tired she looked, 
in spite of it, and not nearly so large as she used 
to seem to the little Barbara Ann. Why! She 
looked old! Why, Aunt Annameel was old! 

Barbara hadn’t seen Aunt Annameel in a long 
time. Aunt Cindy used to go to Hepzibah House 
with conscientious regularity, and Aunt Annameel 
was always invited to dinner on holidays, like 
Christmas and Thanksgiving; now and then Bar¬ 
bara herself had ‘ ‘ run in ’ ’ upon her, urged there¬ 
to, at times coerced, by kindly Aunt Cindy. Oh, 
yes, Barbara had seen Aunt Annameel fairly 
often, since that day so long ago when she had 
turned her back on the impossible conditions of 
Aunt Cindy’s household regime, to breathe the 
more congenial, if slightly musty, atmosphere of 
Hepzibah House. But though Barbara had seen 
her, it had been with eyes that saw not. Aunt 
Annameel was queer, and one went to see her be¬ 
cause one must, and got away again as soon as 
might be. And while there one talked incessantly, 
if one were wise; for any pause gave Aunt Anna¬ 
meel opportunity to pounce on one with a query 
as to what Second Timothy had to say on the sub- 


168 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


ject, or to ask “and what do we read in Revela¬ 
tions, fourth chapter and ninth verse?”—ques¬ 
tions which Barbara couldn’t have answered, even 
in Sunday-school, if Miss Lawrence ever had 
asked them; which she probably wouldn’t, at least 
not in that abrupt way, ‘ ‘ not in a million years! ’ ’ 
Barbara reflected. 

And now Barbara had come to visit Uncle ’Lias 
and Aunt Savory at Hanchell Farm, and here was 
Aunt Annameel! 

Barbara’s greetings were cordial, though con¬ 
fused. What in the world —where had Aunt 
Annameel come from? And when and why? How 
did she happen to come ’way off up here all alone? 

Aunt Annameel seemed rather to enjoy Bar¬ 
bara’s bewilderment, and replied in leisurely 
fashion, that she had come from Red Haven and 
Hepzibah House last night, because the Lord had 
sent her. She was not alone, He had been with 
her all the way. 

Later, she elaborated. Because in some respect 
she had failed in doing God’s will, He had sent 
upon her this new disease, that they called La 
Grippy. She had fought it with the Word, but 
sin is ever stubborn, and at length, though she re¬ 
covered, she found her physical strength had 
become even as her faith—insufficient unto her 
need. So that when Miss Mattie also came down 
with La Grippy, and after her Miss Sarah, Aunt 
Annameel had not been strong enough to care for 
them as they had done for her; they had to get a 
nurse. 

But Aunt Annameel felt that she ought to go 
away till, by meditation and prayer, she should 
have regained her spiritual and physical strength. 
All one afternoon she had prayed over it, and 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


169 


right after supper, hadn’t Aunt Cindy come in, 
having but just heard of her illness; and she had 
chanced to mention that Barbara was spending 
the summer with the Hanchell relatives, up in 
York State. 

And there, do you see, was the very answer to 
her prayer! She too would visit Ma’s folks in 
York State! And so she had written Cousin 
Savory, here, that very night, and here she was! 
Praise the Lord! 

Aunt Savory was somewhat embarrassed by 
these outspoken references to One whom she was 
wont to address much less familiarly, and then 
only at church or in the maidenly solitude of her 
own chamber. Aunt Savory was what is known 
as a 4 ‘ good Churchwoman, ” and never missed a 
service at the tiny Episcopal church in town, 
unless entirely snowed in by winter drifts. She 
would as soon have thought of going to bed with¬ 
out her high-necked and long-sleeved nightgown 
as of doing so without first reading the Collect, 
Epistle and Gospel for the day, with sundry por¬ 
tions of the Order for Evening Prayer. Aunt 
Annameel’s casual manner of referring to the 
Deity was a distinct shock to Aunt Savory, and 
smacked of irreverence, if not of downright 
sacrilege. 

Uncle ’Lias, who hadn’t seen his niece since her 
childhood, stated to Aunt Savory, in private, his 
opinion that Aunt Annameel had ‘ 4 owls in her 
attic, sure’s you live!”—but treated her with 
extraordinary politeness, as a dweller in an alien 
land. And Aunt Savory hid involuntary shud¬ 
ders, and strove to keep to everyday channels of 
speech; ably abetted by Barbara, who had the 
advantage of long familiarity with Aunt Anna- 


170 


ANANIAS* DAUGHTER 


meel*s conversational rocks and shoals. Aunt 
Savory believed that there is good in all things, 
and conscientiously looking for it in her cousin 
Annameel, soon found a genuinely warm heart 
under the cloak of over-righteousness; while Aunt 
Annameel quickly guessed a nature as deeply reli¬ 
gious as her own, though less articulate, and the 
two ultimately became excellent friends. 

Barbara wondered, however, how it would be 
with the rest of the clan, when they should come to 
meet Aunt Annameel. And what would “the 
girls** think, and Dr. MacKenzie? Well, she 
would tell people that Aunt Annameel was i ‘ queer, 
but as good as gold, really. * * That in fact came to 
be the village estimate of this odd person, and her 
sayings were passed from one to another with 
huge enjoyment, long after her visit came to an 
end. 

But to Barbara *s amazement, young Doctor 
MacKenzie appeared to derive positive pleasure 
from Aunt Annameel *s society, and sought it 
early and late, so that after all Hanchell Farm 
proved no sanctuary from the humiliating sight 
of him. Stranger still, Aunt Annameel liked him, 
too, though she protested that all his pills and 
potions were but so much poison, his theories 
poppycock, and the whole medical profession a 
misguided lot of fanatics, hidebound, wilfully 
blind to the wonderful truth that there can be no 
healing save through prayer. If folks would take 
proper care of their souls their bodies would take 
care of themselves, and all the doctors would 
have to seek another trade! 

One day, surreptitiously summoned by a badly- 
frightened Aunt Savory, he found Aunt Annameel 
moaning, almost helpless with pain, having over- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


171 


indulged in green corn—then at the height of its 
season—and Aunt Annameel’s teeth not being all 
that they once were. She was suffering so intense¬ 
ly that she could not resist his ministrations; but 
when his Sod. Bi-Carb. and Amm. Sp. Arom. 
brought quick relief, she gave the whole credit to 
the fervent prayers she had poured forth for a 
full hour prior to his arrival! 

But in spite of Aunt Annameel, in spite, even, 
of young Doctor MacKenzie, Hanchell Farm 
proved a very garden of delight to Barbara Ann. 
Three hundred acres there were, hewn from virgin 
forest by certain ancestral Hanchells, obeying 
the then equivalent of ‘ ‘ go west, young man! ’ ’— 
seeking in the wilderness of central New York for 
opportunity not to be found in the effete civiliza¬ 
tions of Massachusetts and of Connecticut. The 
house itself, a rambling, weather worn structure 
of jostling uprights and “ells,” had been built by 
some post-Revolutionary ancestor a full century 
ago, and occupied by a succession of Hanchells 
ever since. Here Grandma Ferriss (she was 
Sally Ann Hanchell, you remember) had lived as 
a girl, and many were the tales Greatuncle ’Lias 
had to tell of her youth and his own; how, of a 
Sunday evening, when he and his brothers would 
return from calling on certain young ladies of the 
neighborhood, they would be sure to find a string 
of saddled horses hitched to the fence palings, 
their riders pleasantly engaged within in the 
agreeable pastime of “sparking” the three pretty 
Hanchell girls. 

“The prettiest girls in the county, my sisters 
were!” boasted old Mr. Hanchell with honest con¬ 
viction. He told Barbara she hadn’t the Hanchell 


172 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


look; nor did she apparently “take after” the 
Ferrisses, either, what little he’d ever seen of ’em. 

“I saw your mother once, when she was about 
your age, ’ ’ he said to Barbara one day. ‘ ‘ She was 
a mighty pretty girl; yes, sir, a mighty pretty 
girl! I guess you favor your father’s folks more 
—eh, Barb’ry!” 

Barbara laughingly acknowledged that she had 
always been considered an unequivocal Thair, and 
Aunt Savory hastened to change the subject lest 
the child’s feelings be hurt. Barbara thought it 
a huge joke, however; related it gleefully to all the 
second-cousins and cousins-further-removed, and 
likewise stored it up for the sure appreciation of 
Uncle Ben, at home. 

Barbara ’s week at Hanchell Farm lengthened to 
a month, and then she hated to go. She had come 
to love sweet, gentle Aunt Savory, and had found 
in the old man a mine of anecdote, quaintly humor¬ 
ous, sometimes racy, but always interesting. She 
hated leaving the old house, too. Barren it might 
be as to exterior, but Barbara’s eyes sparkled as 
she visioned Aunt Cindy’s delight in the ancient 
dressers and wardrobes, the spinet brought from 
over the sea by the original New England Han¬ 
chell in sixteen-hundred-and-something, the spin¬ 
dle-legged chairs, and the shining pewter and 
brass that kept Aunt Savory and “Hitty,” the 
middle-aged “hired girl,” busily at work a great 
many hours each week. How dreadfully new and 
varnishy the dwellings of the village Hanchells, 
beside all this old-time mellowness! Why, many 
of them were built less than fifty years ago; and 
had “cozy corners’’ in the parlors, and wicker tea 
tables with souvenir spoons and a Japanese tea 
service that had to be dusted every week, and silk- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


173 


flounced “piano lamps,” and a cylinder phono¬ 
graph which. implored shrilly, “oh, spare him, 
for I love him ten-derly!” when the Pinafore 
record was put on. Yes, indeed, they were quite 
up to date in Littledale; but Barbara liked the old 
farmhouse best. 

And oh, the great elms in the dooryard, at whose 
age one could only guess! Uncle ’Lias said they 
had been there in his grandfather’s day, and were 
quite sizable trees even then. . . . And ris¬ 

ing behind the big barns, the wooded hill where 
once upon a time Uncle Sol had killed a b’ar! 
Uncle Sol was Uncle ’Lias’ uncle; Grandma Fer- 
riss’, too, of course, which made him—let me see, 
what relation to Barbara Ann? Well, Aunt 
Savory knew, anyway; Aunt Savory knew the 
Hanchell family tree to its remotest twig, and was 
keen on heraldry and the Daughters of the Ameri¬ 
can Revolution. It was from her that Barbara 
learned of the doughty deeds of one Eldad Han¬ 
chell at Bennington, and of Leftenant Jonathan 
Barrick at Monmouth; and about the patriotism 
of Captain Enoch Hanchell of the Connecticut 
militia, who served throughout the war, was 
wounded in the leg so that he walked lame ever 
after, but who refused to apply for a pension on 
the ground that, what with his cider-brandy dis¬ 
tillery doing so well, the struggling young nation 
needed the money more than he did! And how 
Barbara thrilled at it all, knowing these to have 
been of her own blood! 

But Aunt Annameel was moved only to sigh, 
and shake her head. Vanity, all vanity! How 
much better to pin one’s thoughts and desires to 
the things of the spirit and the life to come, for 
one could not hope to find salvation in the bloody 


174 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


deeds of the past! Aunt Savory opened her 
mouth to reply, but shut it again without saying 
anything. What was the use? 

Young Doctor MacKenzie’s preoccupation with 
Aunt Annameel’s “psycopathy” did not, of 
course, preclude a word with Barbara now and 
then. Several times he asked her how she liked 
Littledale, and was assured that she liked it very 
much indeed. Finally he said the rest of it. But 
whether it was her remembrance of that tone and 
manner which were not his bedside tone and man¬ 
ner, or whether she really didn’t care for Little- 
dale as a permanent residence, he didn’t come 
again, to the intense disgust of Aunt Annameel, 
who said he had the making of a first-rate man in 
him, if only he could be made to see the fallacy of 
his belief in medicine for the healing of mankind. 

However, even though Barbara didn’t care to 
remain in Littledale as 4 ‘young Mrs. Doctor Mac- 
Kenzie,” she might have stayed, less sonorously, 
as “Mrs. John Wells.” John was the miller’s 
son, and had been to Cornell; but he came near to 
spoiling Barbara’s visit, for he was big and blond 
and reminded her of Jimmy. 

Not that she needed reminders. Jimmy dwelt 
ever in her thought, and she was obliged to bury 
him beneath many layers of gayety lest he bob 
up and disgrace her with tears of loneliness and 
longing. So she entered with zest into all that 
was offered for her entertainment, and went home 
much improved in looks and spirits, Aunt Cinr!~ 
thought. 

Jimmy, it seemed, hadn’t been near the house 
in her absence, but had joined a crowd of fellows 
from the old choir and gone into camp at Manas- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 175 

quan; and now, in October, bad long been back at 
his work. 

The truth was that he had come home in June, 
tingling with anticipation, only to find his bird 
flown, and flown so recently as to leave no doubt 
of her intention. i ‘ Hang it all! ” he stormed with¬ 
in himself, “she needn’t have taken it so darned 
literally!” Evidently she meant him to keep the 
letter of his promise to his mother, as well as its 
spirit! So he didn’t even go to see Aunt Cindy, 
because he just couldn’t bear to go there with 
Barbara gone; and when the fellows asked him, he 
s’posed he might as well be at Manasquan as any 
place; he could fish, and think about his girl— 

At Christmas, Mrs. Landridge went once more 
to Chicago, and Barbara wondered grimly how 
much longer they were going to keep it up— 
Jimmy avoiding her, as she believed, at the Christ¬ 
mas holidays, and she dodging him during the 
summer vacation. But this year Jimmy did not 
come home in June. He was going to work in the 
Osgood, Harper and Osgood offices all summer, 
his mother told Barbara, in the expectation of 
being ready for Paris in the fall. Well, Barbara 
needn’t go away this year, then. That simplified 
matters, for in spite of her morbid dread of meet¬ 
ing Jimmy, and much as she would have enjoyed 
another summer with the Hanchells, for which 
invitations were arriving almost daily, yet she 
couldn’t but feel that the MacKenzie-Wells occur¬ 
rences had spoiled Littledale, rather, as a place of 
refuge! 


XIV 


Barbara Ann was no Peter K-napskittle in petti¬ 
coats. Persons with axes and other cutlery to be 
sharpened found hers no willing hand at the 
grindstone; not that she meant to be disobliging 
—more than that she would do, and cheerfully, 
where her heart pointed the way. But this 
“crush’’ of Stella Martine’s—was it an ax-handle 
she glimpsed beneath the cloak of affection which 
Stella apparently had donned with her summer 
raiment? 

Heretofore there never had been more than a 
surface friendliness between the two girls, and 
Barbara, while outwardly cordial, had some slight 
suspicion of a nigger in the woodpile; Stella was 
almost too honeyed. Moreover, she seemed to 
have Jimmy very much on her mind, and Barbara 
didn’t want to talk about Jimmy, least of all to 
Stella Martine. Not even to Ethel Harbie, her 
closest friend, with whom she discussed every¬ 
thing else, from immortality and votes-for-women 
to the new sleeves, could she say much about 
Jimmy. And now Ethel had gone off to Europe 
with her mother, leaving Barbara with this inex¬ 
plicable friendship on her hands, and the convic¬ 
tion that Stella, in some devious way of her own, 
was trying to reach Jimmy through her. Barbara 
smiled a crooked little smile at the absurdity of 
it; didn’t Stella know that she and Jimmy were— 
were not—whatever it was they were or were not? 
What was it she had up her sleeve, anyway? If 
she wanted to know things about Jimmy, why 

176 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 177 

didn’t she ask his mother! She saw her often 
enough, goodness knows! 

Stella had asked her, with purely negative re¬ 
sults. The astute Mrs. Landridge, bent on pre¬ 
serving her son from matrimonial pitfalls on 
account of his career, would hardly snatch him 
from one fair enslaver only to hand him over to 
another, and that other a female nincompoop like 
Stella Mar tine. The sentiment, you understand, 
is Mrs. Landridge’s. So in the matter of authen¬ 
tic information Stella wasn’t very well equipped 
for the project she had in view. 

For instance, she had heard nothing of the plan 
for Paris-in-the-fall, else she might have changed 
her tactics and rushed her objective, instead of 
pursuing the leisurely campaign she had mapped 
out in the expectation that Jimmy would be spend¬ 
ing the summer at home. Nor was she fully cog¬ 
nizant of the break between Jimmy and Barbara, 
though she did think Barbara unnaturally reticent, 
if they really were as devoted as people supposed. 
Stella’s “fellows” pervaded her conversation like 
the odor of the sea on an east wind! 

Amory Booth, according to Stella ’s plan, was to 
be the lever with which to pry Jimmy loose from 
his allegiance to Barbara Ann. This was her de¬ 
sign—to become so firmly intrenched in intimacy 
with Barbara that when the two young men, 
equally inseparable, should arrive home from 
their respective colleges for the long vacation, the 
four would drift naturally into close association; 
and given such a combination and a few weeks’ 
time, Stella had no doubt whatever of her ability 
to pair off the little group according to her own 
ideas. For all her mushroom affection for Bar¬ 
bara Ann, her opinion of that young woman’s 


178 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


powers of fascination was nil; Stella, you see, had 
never heard of young Doctor MacKenzie; nor 
about John Wells, the miller’s son, either! 

Now Stella wasn’t really a bad sort. She was 
no vampire—or whatever we called them in those 
days—nor indeed any brand of villainess what¬ 
soever, but merely a wholly selfish young person, 
trained by doting parents from earliest childhood 
to have her own way at all costs. She much pre¬ 
ferred having it by fair means when practicable; 
at the same time she would not scruple to use, if 
not foul, at least questionable ones, should the exi¬ 
gencies of love or war demand. And James 
Warren Landridge, his name ringing aristocratic 
in her ears, his handsome person, his undoubted 
ability and probable future distinction, seemed to 
Stella infinitely desirable, and worthy of her best 
efforts to acquire. 

You see, Stella, though she lived in the old 
Sloane mansion, and her people had the means to 
gratify her least whim, was hardly of that social 
upper crust known as “the Hill set,” nor yet of 
the older aristocracy represented by the Lanes 
and the Lawrences, the Bancrofts, and the Rossi- 
ters. It would take all of another generation to 
erase from public memory old “Boat” Martin, 
with his red flannel undershirt, his clay pipe, and 
his too frequent indulgence in strong waters; and 
of poor futile Marthy, his wife, who probably 
would have failed to recognize her own face in 
the wiggly kitchen mirror, if it chanced not to be 
adorned with at least one black eye, the gift of 
her lord and master. 

The only son of this worthy couple, eschewing 
red flannel, tobacco and whiskey, came at a suit- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


179 


able age to marry the daughter of the man who 
had reaped the benefit of his father’s boundless 
thirst; a clever young woman, and ambitious to 
lift herself above the social level of saloon-keep¬ 
ing. She took the helm forthwith, and caused her 
well-to-do father to set her carpenter husband up 
in the building and contracting business; she fur¬ 
nished her house in the plush-and-walnut splendor 
of the eighties; had visiting cards engraved with 
“Mrs. John Allison Martine”—though whence 
the “Allison,” likewise the final e annexed to the 
paternal Martin, Mr. John Allison Martine knew 
not; and with her children set herself to storm the 
citadel of social recognition. Stella was a credit 
to her mother’s training; but Percy had in some 
degree reverted to type, substituting costly 
cigarettes for the day pipe and exotic drinks for 
the fiery raw liquor of his grandfather’s indul¬ 
gence. 

The part of Mr. John Allison Martine was to 
provide the sinews of war; which, with the aid of 
politics and a not too close-fitting conscience, he 
had done as lavishly as even Mrs. John Allison 
Martine could desire. Now but one thing more 
was needed—an alliance with one of Red Haven’s 
“best families” which would open many doors 
hitherto barred to the descendants of old “Boat” 
Martin and of Cromwell the saloon-keeper; hence 
Stella’s personal preference for Jimmy met much 
encouragement at home, and her plans for his an¬ 
nexation had her mother’s unqualified approval. 

And then after all it was Barbara herself who 
in a single moment of pride and shame and hot 
resentment, made all this elaborate scheming null 
and useless, placing in Stella’s receptive hands a 
veritable sledge-hammer wherewith to smash her 


180 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


happiness and Jimmy’s, instead of the gentler 
weapon Stella had thought to use. 

Stella had run in one afternoon, bubbling with 
news. She had just got a letter from Cousin 
Fanny Cromwell, in Chicago; “You remember, 
Barbara; the one who was here that summer we 
girls had the cottage at Barnegat—tall girl with 
Titian hair—” 

Barbara remembered. Barbara also remem¬ 
bered that Cousin Fanny had been inclined to 
snub the Red Haven girls, as denizens of a jay 
town quite remote from her urban consciousness; 
the jayness of the town seeming not to reflect so 
much on the Red Haven boys, however. And 
Cousin Fanny’s hair, as Barbara remembered it, 
was red—but that, of course, was neither here nor 
there. 

Stella rattled on with seeming guilelessness, an 
eye on Barbara, consciously demure. “ And what 
do you think—she’s met Jimmy—at a fraternity 
dance, I think she said. I meant to bring the 
letter, but Mama called me to hook her up, and I 
must have laid it down somewhere. I do hope I 
haven’t lost it. She remembered him right away, 
on account of his being so tall and good-looking, 
and he said talking to her was like meeting a 
friend from home. She said he took most all her 
dances, so they could talk, and she asked him to 
call and he said he would, but Fan wasn’t sure, 
because one of the girls said he was an awful 
fusser with girls, he’d go with one a little while 
and then drop her like a hot potato, and the last 
one was the cutest little blonde, but peroxide 
prob ’ly, because it seems she was a chorus girl or 
something, and you know what they are—!” 

Stella had to breathe at last. 4 4 Oh, dear! ’ ’ she 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


181 


sighed, “I’m afraid Jimmy’s getting the habit!” 

‘‘Why, what habit!” asked Barbara, a trifle 
grim. 

“Oh, jilting girls!” Stella explained airily, but 
with a side glance of inexpressible slyness at Bar¬ 
bara’s startled face. 

Then it was that Barbara Ann lost her head and 
her temper, and with them her last hope ojf a recon¬ 
ciliation with Jimmy. . . . During all these 

months she had struggled through utter bewilder¬ 
ment to a half belief that some changing wind of 
circumstance must blow away this misunderstand¬ 
ing which enveloped them like fog drifted in from 
sea. Day by day she had swung like a pendulum 
between hot anger at Jimmy, and cold fear lest the 
wind might not change, after all . . . and 
now she knew! No use trying to fool herself any 
longer—Jimmy hadn’t meant the things he had 
said that night; he was “just practicin’,” like 
Piggy Wilson. Or maybe he had thought he 
meant it, till he met those others . . . and 
Jimmy wouldn’t pretend to go on caring. But oh! 
He might have written and told her how it was— 
was he afraid she’d make a fuss, and try to hold 
him? Didn’t he know her better than that? Did 
he dream she would lift a finger to keep him, if he 
wanted to go ? 

“Jilted” isn’t a pleasant word, and Barbara 
had avoided it in her thought; but now she had to 
face it. Jilted! She, Barbara Thair! Stella be¬ 
lieved it, and Heaven knew how many others; and 
in spite of all her care, all her brave assumption 
of happiness . . . 

Barbara never stopped to consider the unlike¬ 
lihood of Jimmy’s doing such a thing, at least in 
such a way, to his lifelong friend and playmate. 


182 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


She was possessed by a mad, unreasoning fury 
that paralyzed every thought, every inhibition, 
save the impulse to defend herself from this public 
ignominy. And so, abandoning truth and loyalty, 
throwing all caution to the winds, Barbara Ann 
spoke the words that were to cause her years of 
untold sorrow’, of heartache unbearable. 

“Oh! meaning me!” she drawled with amused 
contempt. “Well, you can count me out, I guess; 
I’m not among the mourners! Of course, Jim 
and I played around together lots when we were 
kids, but that’s all. Since w r e grew up there never 
has been anything between us, and never will be, 
of course. Jim’s more like a brother—” 

“Why, Barbara Thair!” Stella’s eyes grew 
big with incredulity. (Stella, you see, had a 
brother!) “Why, you were together nearly all 
the time, that last summer he was home, before 
he went to college! You know you were!” 

“ Well, and don’t you know’ why?” Right here 
Barbara turned loose her imagination, regardless. 
“Why, it was ‘Freak’ Liddell! I just had to let 
Jimmy stick around—the ‘Freak’ w r as acting 
aw T ful, and I simply used Jim where he’d do the 
most good. He didn’t mind, because he was going 
away in the fall, anyway. Jimmy’s a good kid; 
I like him a lot, of course—” Barbara paused; her 
voice required steadying. There! That’s better! 
“—But—oh, w r ell, I suppose it’s because we’ve 
known each other so long—” 

Stella was polite, but unconvinced; so Barbara 
yawned widely behind her hand, offering in 
apology some mention of Ted Rossiter, and of the 
hour of his departure in quest of beauty sleep, 
the previous evening. How Ted did love to see 
the last dog hung, always! 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


183 


They gossiped a little about this and that; about 
Ted, and Ban Hendrickson, and Bessie Paige; 
and wasn’t Ban’s cousin from Trenton just the 
dandiest fellow! “Belle Lorimer’s party! Oh, 
is it going to be a henfest! I hadn’t heard. I 
don’t know—I might go. Belle always has such 
perfectly gorgeous eats, don’t you think!” And 
wasn’t it funny about Miss Agatha Lawrence 
marrying Mr. Nichols after all these years, and 
he so fat and bald, and forty at the very least! 

But when Stella had gone, Barbara stumbled 
drunkenly to her room, and for the first time in 
her healthy young life, fainted dead away. 

However, something happened a week or two 
later that drove from her mind all recollection of 
her talk with Stella. She forgot the look of sly 
comprehension, the nigger in the woodpile, the 
claws beneath the velvet. Amory Booth came 
one evening with a message from Jim. 

“He wrote,” said Amory, “ ‘when you see Bar¬ 
bara, just say to her for me —October third!’ 
That was all, just ‘October third.’ Seems kinda 
funny, but probably you know what he means.” 

“Why, that’s Jim’s birthday!” Barbara ex¬ 
claimed, hardly daring to believe she heard aright. 
“He’ll be—why, he’ll be twenty-one!” 

“That’s right! I never thought of that; but 
what’s the idea! Does he expect a birthday 
present, or what! I thought it was a date he was 
making!” grinned Amory. 

“Well, maybe he was!” Barbara replied, laugh¬ 
ing as she had not laughed in months. 

“Well, why didn’t he write it to you then, in¬ 
stead of me!” Amory spoke almost peevishly. 
Reason enough, too; who wouldn’t feel peevish, 


184 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


and act so, seeing the lovelight leap into dear 
brown eyes at a message from one’s best friend! 

“You can search me/” Barbara grew joyously 
slangy in the immensity of her relief. “Have to 
ask Jim, I guess!” 

Ask Jim—yes, she could do that now. At last 
the barrier was down. Now she was to know the 
reason for his long silence, these two years with¬ 
out a word—and there had been a reason, else why 
should he have sent that cryptic message!— a 
reason which w 7 ould be a reason no more, on 
October third. Those girls in Chicago didn’t 
worry her now. It was going to be all right at 
last—on Jimmy’s birthday! 


XV 


For the rest of that summer Barbara was like 
one awakened from some horrid nightmare, tell¬ 
ing herself over and over again, ‘‘oh, it isn’t true, 
it isn’t true!” revelling deliciously in the assur¬ 
ance that her fears were but stuff-o ’-dreams. 
Some pigmy misunderstanding, grown to giant 
proportions in her mind, had affrighted her be¬ 
yond all reason; she didn’t even try to guess what 
it had been—what matter, now? Soon Jimmy 
would set her world aright once more; October 
third, the day of days, came flying on happy wings. 
She flashed about the house like joy impersonate, 
singing, dancing, gayer even than the old Barbara 
ever had been. Aunt Cindy, though perplexed, 
hailed the change with delight. New dresses? 
Why, of course! What would Barbara like? This 
revival of a long-dormant clothes interest reas¬ 
sured Aunt Cindy as nothing else could have done, 
and she would cheerfully have bought forty 
dresses instead of the four Barbara chose. How 
good it seemed to have the child her own merry 
self once more! 

The morning of the third of October, dawning 
warm and bright, one of those left-over summer 
days with which autumn gives the lie to threats 
of approaching winter, found Barbara Ann quite 
tremulous with excitement. Her household tasks 
were got through with a dash and vim which made 
short work of them; then she dressed in the pret¬ 
tiest of the four new frocks, and established her- 

185 


186 


ANANIAS' DAUGHTER 


self on the porch with a bit of embroidery des¬ 
tined for her long neglected hope chest. From 
here she could see the corner Jimmy must turn; 
and what with keeping an eye on that corner, .and 
the uncontrollable trembling of her fingers, it is 
small wonder if the close-set stitches were hardly 
as perfect as they might have been. Would he 
come in the morning, dashing in among them as of 
old, with a whoop for Barbara, a hug for Aunt 
Cindy, a bit of nonsense for Grandma’s delight, 
and a general ‘ 1 Hurrah, boys! ’ ’ right and left, as 
Uncle Ben described it? Or would he come in the 
afternoon, garbed and mannered to match the dig¬ 
nity of twenty-one and a two years’ residence in 
Chicago? Or in the evening, that this wondrous 
hour of reunion might be theirs alone? 

He did not come in the morning, and Barbara 
was disappointed, but not unduly so; it would 
have been so prosaic, almost an anticlimax, in a 
way. . . . He did not come in the afternoon, 

either; and again Barbara was disappointed, but 
still, it was well; that would have been so conven¬ 
tional, and not a bit like Jimmy. . . . 

It was early evening, just after supper, when 
she saw him at last, rounding the corner by the 
drug store. Barbara would have risen from her 
chair, but couldn’t; her knees were as water, she 
was hot and cold and shaking and not a little 
mortified thereat—when suddenly she saw what 
Jimmy’s bulk or her own agitation had hidden 
from her at first: Jimmy was not alone. Walking 
at his side, preening, coquetting, was a girl! And 
the girl was Stella Martine. 

Now wasn’t that—Barbara asked the world— 
just like Stella? To come poking along, tonight of 
all nights! Oh, it was a shame! . . . The 



ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


187 


two stood for a moment at the curb, and Barbara 
was almost sure that Jimmy looked toward the 
house, though he could scarcely have seen her 
through the screening vines; then they turned and 
entered the drug store. Barbara sighed her im¬ 
patience. Oh, well, if Jimmy could get off at the 
price of an ice-cream soda, they were in luck after 
all. It was yet early. Eagerly she watched for 
them to emerge; oh, dear, what an unconscionable 
time it was taking to dispose of those sodas! 

Ah! At last! Now Jimmy would shake Stella 
somehow, and come to her. . . . Why, what! 

Barbara could scarce believe her eyes. No, 
Jimmy, no! Not£/itf£way! It’s here your girl is 
waiting, waiting for you, Jimsy—here on the old 
porch of fragrant memories; scene of many a 
childish frolic, of the long, happy talks of later 
days, of—oh, Jimmy, come back, come bach! 

But Jimmy could not have heard the cry had 
she really uttered it; for now he was quite out of 
sight down Asbury Avenue, Stella tripping hate¬ 
fully beside him, laughing up at him with spright¬ 
ly assurance, sparkling as only Stella could 
sparkle. Barbara pulled herself sharply together. 
It would not be so easy, she reflected, to “shake” 
Stella, if Stella chose not to be shaken. Jimmy 
would have to take her home, of course, in order 
to get rid of her; he would be down later. 

It was too dark to sew now, even if Barbara 
could have controlled those shaking hands; so she 
sat with them tight-clasped in her lap, watching 
the corner till her eyes ached. The arc-lights 
blazed out, and still Barbara watched. The big 
clock in the tower of St. Michael’s boomed eight 
measured strokes, followed by the old grand¬ 
father’s clock in the hall, like a sharpened echo; 


188 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


then came Mrs. Cap’n Sickles’ mantel edition of 
the chimes of Westminster; a cuckoo shrilled from 
Mrs. Parkins’ dining-room windows; from old 
Mrs. Black’s kitchen a tinny one-two-three-four- 
five came hurrying, as though quite out of breath 
with trying to catch up with the procession. Now 
surely Jimmy would be coming soon! 

St. Michael’s again—nine o’clock; the clock in 
the hall; the chimes; the cuckoo; Mrs. Black’s, 
farther behind than ever . . . ten o ’clock, and 

the whole thing over again . . . eleven . . . 

Oh, how cold it had grown! Barbara hadn’t 
known it ever was so cold as this, on the third of 
October. She got stiffly to her feet and went in¬ 
doors. Uncle Ben was still reading; Barbara 
crept quietly up the the stairs and sat down in the 
dimness of her own little room. 

What, then, had Jimmy meant by that strange 
message, “October third?” He had come home, 
apparently for the express purpose of being there 
on that day; Mrs. Landridge had said that she 
expected him late on the evening of the second. 
He was to sail on Saturday, so would have but a 
few days at home; his mother would go up to New 
York to see him off. Barbara had smiled when 
she heard this, thinking it not unlikely that she, 
too, would be of the party to bid the traveler bon 
voyage! 

Rallying all her forces, Barbara at length shook 
off her bewilderment and apprehension. In some 
way Stella had made it impossible for Jimmy to 
get away; yet it did seem as if he could have 
managed somehow—he was resourceful enough 
when he wanted something very badly. Well, and 
so was Stella, for that matter. Perhaps in the 
morning—but it was with a heavy heart that Bar- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


189 


bar a at last began slowly to make ready for bed. 

The next morning, however, brought no Jimmy, 
nor. the afternoon^ nor yet the evening, though 
again Barbara waited until eleven, knowing 
miserably that it was no use, he would not come. 
Nor was there any word nor sign of him the fol¬ 
lowing day. Barbara stayed closely at home, lest 
they meet on the street and be compelled to speak 
in the presence of others, or worse still, pass with¬ 
out speaking; she had no idea how it would be. 
And when Saturday passed and she knew that he 
had gone, had sailed without a word to her, sailed 
away to be gone for years, something in Bar¬ 
bara’s heart seemed to die; something that she 
still must carry about with her, an intolerable 
burden, like the albatross of her childhood. At 
first she hoped a little, vaguely, for some mes¬ 
sage ; but as the days passed and none came—ah, 
well, of course, she hadn’t really expected to 
hear— 

It came to her like a flash of lightning at mid¬ 
night, blinding her, searing her very soul—the 
explanation of it all. A fortnight later it was, and 
Barbara sat with a book, sunning herself on the 
front steps. At the sound of a friendly hail she 
looked up, to see Stella Martine going by on the 
opposite side of the street, escorted by her new¬ 
est acquisition, one William Smith, the “Bull” of 
yesteryear; brother, you remember, to Thankful 
Cordelia Jennie May Smith. Stella waved an ami¬ 
cable hand, and “Bull” swung his hat high. 
“Bull” was one of those boys who would have 
liked to walk home from school with Barbara, if 
it hadn’t been for Jimmy. 

Barbara waved in reply, and had returned to 
her pretense of reading, when suddenly before 


190 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


her eyes there danced in letters of flame, words 
that were not in the book at all: “had to let Jimmy 
stick around to keep ‘Freak’ Liddell away ”— 
“simply used Jim where he’d do the most good” 
—“never been anything bettveen us and never will 
be” ... 

An avalanche of understanding* swept down 
upon Barbara Ann at last. She could almost hear 
Stella purring it into Jimmy’s ear over their tall 
glasses of foamy chocolate. With or without em¬ 
bellishments, it would have been enough for 
Jimmy; indeed it needed no embroidering at 
Stella’s hands, for the words were utterly damn¬ 
ing as they stood. As they stood! Hopeless 
enough at best, here indeed was food for despair 
—those dreadful w T ords standing alone in all their 
bald, stark hideousness; the text without the con¬ 
text! For it was plain enough, to Barbara’s sud¬ 
denly clarified vision. Beyond any possible doubt 
Stella had repeated Barbara’s words, but natu¬ 
rally she had not repeated her own, nor made any 
reference to the letter from Cousin Fan. Jimmy 
knew what Barbara had said, but he didn’t know, 
never would know, how she had been stung into 
the saying of it. Perhaps Stella herself hardly 
realized it, till her random shot struck home. Not 
that it would have gone far in extenuation in 
Jimmy’s eyes; but oh! how Barbara did wish he 
knew, that he might perhaps blame her a little 
less bitterly, despise her a little less completely! 

She herself had no words for the horror she felt. 
She was bruised and numb with the shock of 
realization. She wanted to run to Jimmy, crying 
out the truth, groveling at his feet, begging him to 
forgive the hasty words, the silly, meaningless 
words, the cruel, lying words; knowing that they 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


191 


were unforgivable, a rankling barrier between 
them for all time. 

With a vicious clang the gate of yesterday’s 
garden slammed shut in Barbara’s face, and she 
could only peer through the keyhole at a little 
girl wearing the brand of Ananias, with Aunt 
Annameel sternly explaining what becomes of 
little girls who are “lyers.” Oh, but Aunt Anna¬ 
meel had been right; Barbara knew, now, how 
terribly right Aunt Annameel had been! 


XVI 


Through the weeks that followed it seemed to 
Barbara that she just couldn’t go on living in a 
world that held no Jimmy; at any rate she was 
almost sure she didn’t want to. Oh, dear, why 
must one breathe and eat and sleep as usual, when 
all that really mattered in life had gone completely 
to smash? Yes, and smile, too; especially did one 
have to smile, Barbara soon came to understand. 

To her morbid imagining the most ordinary 
civility of those about her was tinged with pity¬ 
ing kindness. ‘‘ Jilted, poor child!”—she could 
almost read the thought in the back of their minds. 
Did this one know that Jimmy had been in town 
for days, and hadn’t exchanged a word with her, 
hadn’t been near her, though nearly all the other 
girls had seen him and spoken with him? Had 
that one heard of his newer loves in Chicago ? Did 
the other believe Stella ’s open boast of her weekly 
letters from Paris, an arch look and a meaning 
smile hinting at much more that might be revealed 
if she chose? 

But far, far worse than the imagined pity of 
her friends was the certainty in Barbara’s heart 
of hearts that she herself, by her own stupid, 
unconsidered speech, had cast aside her greatest 
happiness when it was all but within her grasp. 
She never thought of blaming Stella, What Stella 
had done was the kind of thing Stella naturally 
would do, as Barbara very well knew. Oh, why 
had she not guarded her tongue, her miserable, 
lying tongue! Could it be that she, Barbara 

192 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


193 


Thair, was sunk so deep in sin that she just went 
ahead and lied like that, without meaning to, al¬ 
most without knowing, when she opened her 
mouth, that she was going to ? Had she, after all, 
no principles, no character, no instinctive feeling 
for what is right and fine and true? Was she, at 
heart, a “Iyer”? 

Barbara shed no tears; her grief and despair 
were too deep to find relief that way. But she 
brooded much, milling it all over in a hopeless 
circle, till she came to wonder “if indeed this 
could be I”—the light-hearted Barbara Ann who 
had gone happily along her pleasant way in that 
so-long-ago before the ending of the world. 

Aunt Cindy wondered too, and was likewise in 
despair. Here was Barbara, after that brief re¬ 
turn to her accustomed joyousness, plunged 
again in the sorrowful apathy of two years ago. 
Jimmy again, of course —drat the boy! but 
how, and what? Appeals to Barbara, direct or 
indirect, availed nothing. Nothing was the mat¬ 
ter, everything was quite all right. Jimmy? Oh, 
yes, he was home for a day or two. No, she hadn’t 
seen him. Did Aunt Cindy want her to match that 
silk this afternoon? The light would be good; 
you couldn’t tell anything about those pastel 
shades by artificial light— 

For a time Barbara made little effort to hide 
her unhappiness, avoiding her friends in great 
measure and shutting herself out from the little 
gaieties of her set; but not for long. Again pride 
came gallantly to the rescue, showing her very 
clearly how such behavior would be construed. 
Well, then! If people were going to believe that 
Jim Landridge had jilted her for Stella Martine 
or anybody else, at least she needn’t let them sup- 


194 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


pose she cared! So she began again to accept in¬ 
vitations and plan little frolics as before, going 
about with one and another of the fellows; Amory, 
of course, when he was home; sometimes “Bull” 
Smith or one of the Lansing boys. They danced 
and skated as usual, and went to all the “nice” 
parties; then there was the Embroidery Club, 
and the Birthday Club, and the Altar Guild, and 
the Girls’ Friendly; there were showers for the 
girls who were going to be married and luncheons 
for them after they were married; and on after¬ 
noons not otherwise occupied they played dupli¬ 
cate whist—at Bessie Paige’s, usually, because 
she had the best set of boards and it saved lugging 
them around. And there were the boys ’ beef steak- 
and-onion suppers on Saturday nights; and now 
and again, when some hoped-to-be Broadway suc¬ 
cess was brought to the Red Haven Opera House 
to be “tried on the dog,” Barbara and her friends 
were wont to identify themselves most enthusias¬ 
tically with said canine, occupying a box some¬ 
times, or a solid phalanx of orchestra chairs. 

After the show they would repair to “some 
place where the eating was good”; perhaps to the 
Lansings’ to make fudge or lobster a la Newburg 
in the chafing dish; or they might raid Aunt 
Cindy’s pantry, or toast crackers and cheese and 
marshmallows at the dining-room grate. At other 
times they supped gaily at the new “Grill,” or at 
Red Haven’s one Chinese restaurant, where they 
sat upon onyx benches, very chilly, at tables of 
exquisitely inlaid wood, and devoured great bowls 
of delicious “chow main” and “yakey man,” 
with a dessert of preserved golden limes from 
Canton, served with a wooden toothpick stuck in 
each one so you needn’t get your fingers sticky; 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


195 


while the more timid shivered in delightful terror 
of tong battles and other strange heathen diver¬ 
sions. 

Barbara waxed hilarious with the rest over the 
difficulties of eating rice with chopsticks, or over 
Bob Lansing’s “Welsh rabbit” which was always 
going to be exactly right this time, or over Ted 
Rossiter’s eyeglasses, that were continually drop¬ 
ping into the fudge. If it were but pretense, at 
least it was a right gallant one; especially in 
Stella’s presence did Barbara quite overflow with 
mirth. Indeed they should not know, should not 
even remotely guess, how terribly she cared! 

Amory was the best ever. How much he knew 
or surmised, what Jim might have told his friend, 
Barbara had no idea. He treated her always with 
the easy good-fellowship of their high school days, 
and seemed to make a point, though unobtrusively, 
of seeing that she had a good time. Therefore she 
was not surprised when he asked her to go with 
him to the Charity Ball on Christmas eve —the 
event of Red Haven’s social season; she was sur¬ 
prised only at the manner of his asking. 

“Barbara,” he had begun diffidently, almost 
apologetically, “it would be all right, wouldn’t it 
—Jim wouldn’t mind, do you think?—if you went 
with me to the Christmas dance, I mean. That is, 
of course—if you cared to—” 

Barbara looked at him soberly, appraisingly. 
He didn’t know then, how serious was the break 
between herself and Jimmy. Hadn’t Jimmy told 
him anythingf And could it be that he hadn’t 
heard the gossip about Jim and Stella? 

Amory had heard it, on the best authority-—that 
of Stella herself; and he had the more readily on 



196 


ANANIAS' DAUGHTER 


that account set it aside as pure fiction and unde¬ 
filed by any taint of plausibility. It certainly 
didn't fit the facts as he knew them. Hadn't Jim, 
that summer in camp at Manasquan, continually 
exasperated poor Amory's unwilling ears with the 
tale of his love for Barbara Ann, his plans for 
their future? And his letters from Chicago—one 
sentence in three either began or ended with her 
name, or so it seemed to Amory. On the whole, 
he very much doubted that Stella had managed 
thus expeditiously to switch Jimmy's affections to 
her very charming self. Why, Jimmy had loved 
Barbara all his life, practically, just as Amory 
had, and Amory knew how much chance there'd be 
of himself falling in love with any Stella Martine! 

But what was this Barbara was saying? . . . 

“Why, thank you, Amory; I should like to go to 
the dance, and I '11 go with you, gladly.—But about 
Jim—well, you see—that's all off—for always, 
Amory.' ’ 

4 4 What, Barbara! All off—between you and old 
Jim? Why—I don't understand—" 

44 Well, it's so," she answered, 44 and we won't 
speak of it again, please, Amory. Let's go to 
the dance, and—forget it!" 

The little shrug which pointed the lightness of 
her speech was almost flippant; and Amory was 
troubled. Certainly everything had been all right 
when last he had talked with Jim. He understood 
that Mrs. Landridge had exacted of her son some 
sort of a promise concerning Barbara, but Jim 
hadn't seemed greatly perturbed over it, evidently 
expecting that things would smooth themselves 

out in time. No, it couldn't be that. 

Amory hadn't seen Jim this last time he had been 
home, except for a few minutes aboard La 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


197 


Touraine before she sailed. They hadn’t spoken 
of Barbara then; of course, there hadn’t been 
much time. . . . What could it be ? And why, 

of all the girls in the world, Stella Martine? 

Amory rather felt that friendship required him 
to talk it over with Barbara, or write Jim, or do 
something to help them to a better understanding. 
Why, Great Scott! Jim and Barbara—why, they 
mustn’t be let to go on the rocks like this! It 
was unthinkable! Which perhaps is why Amory 
did think about it a very great deal. His quixot¬ 
ism, however, came to naught, for Jim utterly 
ignored those portions of his letters which bore 
reference to Barbara, and Barbara herself would 
discuss rainbows or radishes or life or death or 
any other creature, but she would not discuss 
Jimmy. Till Amory took courage of failure, and 
from grieving for his friend, came to be quite 
conscience-stricken at the leaping of his heart on 
his own account! 

Amory and Barbara went to the ball as Jack 
and Jill, in costumes century old, from the Fer- 
riss’ attic. Amory was guiltily happy, and even 
Barbara almost forgot her heartache for a season, 
and really had a very good time indeed. For Bar¬ 
bara was young, and must have been fairly 
steeped in misery not to have responded in some 
measure to the lilt of the music and the tap of 
dancing feet. She threw herself into the revelry 
with gay abandon, as though to let no passing 
moment escape without yielding up its full con¬ 
tent of pleasure; so that when midnight brought 
the mirthful ceremony of unmasking, those who 
knew her best marvelled at the identity of the 
merry Jill who had flirted so gallantly with both 


198 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Hamlets, sundry assorted Santa Clauses, and a 
glittering Jack Frost, while her own Jack looked 
on in admiring content. 

From that evening Amory gradually slipped 
into Jimmy’s place in Barbara’s life, if not in her 
heart. Always he came to see her when he was 
home, week ends, and sometimes he would come 
down during the week as well—if there happened 
to be anything special going on. Two or three 
times that winter and spring Barbara and Aunt 
Cindy went up to the city shopping, and stayed 
over for a day or two, and Amory took them to 
dinner and to the theatre, and once to the Metro¬ 
politan to hear Calve and de Reszke. But only 
when at last Barbara began to seem less unhappy, 
more like the Barbara of old, did Amory fairly 
give himself permission to love his love with all 
his heart, and to tell her so as soon as might be. 

The opportunity came one evening in early sum¬ 
mer, when the syringa bush at the end of the porch 
was starred with fragrant, waxy bloom. They 
had been chatting lazily about nothing in particu¬ 
lar; Barbara drew a spray of the blossoms 
through her fingers as she talked; suddenly, out 
of one of those comfortable silences which fall 
between friends, Amory spoke: 

“Bobs—Barbara, dear, is that still true, what 
you told me, you know—about its being all off 
between you and Jim?” 

“Why—why, y-yes!” Barbara stammered in 
the strange turmoil of feeling which even now the 
very sound of Jimmy’s name aroused within her. 

Amory drew a long breath, and took the plunge. 

“Well, then, Barbara—then there’s no dis¬ 
loyalty in—in speaking—of something I’ve wanted 
to tell you—for months and years—oh, always, I 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


199 


guess! Surely you know, dear; surely you must 
have seen how it is with me—how it’s always been 
with me—about you, I mean. But there was 
always—Jim, and so I couldn’t speak.” 

He captured the slim, sun-browned hands, blos¬ 
soms and all, and forced her to look at him, his 
dark eyes aflame, hers veiled with misery. 

“No, no, Amory, don’t! Please don’t!” 

“I’ve got to, Barbara; and you’ve got to listen! 
Oh, Barbara, dear—I’ve loved you, seems like, 
ever since I can remember, but I can’t go on for¬ 
ever—just looking on at another fellow’s happi¬ 
ness—wait, Barbara, don’t speak yet! Dear, I 
know there’s something that hurts. I don’t know 
what it is, and I don’t want to unless you want 
to tell me; but if it’s anything I can help about— 
if only you’d marry me, dear, and let me make you 
forget, make you happy again! We wouldn’t need 
to wait—about money, I mean; after Commence¬ 
ment I’m going in the office with Dad, and any¬ 
way—you know I have enough—we could get 
married tomorrow if you were willing. Will you, 
Barbara? I don’t mean tomorrow, of course— 
though if you would—God! But sometime, Bar¬ 
bara, will you ? ’ ’ 

It was a long speech, but it had been long 
a-brewing, and Amory knew most of it by heart. 
A thousand times had he said it to Barbara Ann, 
eloquently, convincingly, with none of this stupid 
floundering; but in fancy only. Even now, so long 
was Barbara silent, he almost doubted— had he 
actually spoken this time, after all ? 

A long, long time she sat, while the minutes 
ticked themselves away on the great clock in the 
hall. She didn’t know it could be heard so plainly 
out here. . . . Amory was waiting for his 


200 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


answer; she must say “no,” of course . . . 

but w T hy? She wasn’t Jimmy’s girl how—she 
never could be, again. She liked Amory, more 
than anyone in the world, save Jimmy. Oh, 
Amory was good! He’d be good to her, make her 
forget— But she would have to tell him , and then 
—maybe even Amory wouldn’t go on loving—a 
‘‘ Iyer ’ ’! 

“Oh, Amory! I don’t know—I don’t know!” 
It was almost a wail. 

“Never mind, dear—some other time; I won’t 
hurry you. You just tell me when you get ready; 
and if it’s ‘yes’—I won’t let you be sorry, ever, 
Barbara—” 

Barbara could only look her thanks; she could 
not trust her voice just yet. Amory, likewise, 
kept silence, and the perfume of the syringa 
blooms hung about them like incense before the 
altar of Love. Never again would the “yes” for 
which the man so ardently longed, be so close to 
Barbara’s lips; yet he rose to go, all unknowing. 

“Barbara, you couldn’t, could you, dear—just 
one kiss, Barbara?” he begged, huskily. 

She half lifted her face; Amory was so under¬ 
standing, so good, so infinitely tender! . . . 

And then it came to her with a sudden tightening 
of the heart—he stood exactly where Jimmy had 
stood and said good-night, that one wonderful 
good-night! There at the top of the steps, beside 
the railing . . . She drew back abruptly, a 

sob tearing at her throat. 

“Oh, no, no! I couldn’t, Amory, I couldn’t! 
I’m sorry—good-night”—and she fled within the 
house. 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


201 


Amory’s gentleness, perhaps even more than 
his words, did one thing for Barbara Ann; the 
floodgates of her misery were opened at last, and 
she could weep. Weep she did that night, as 
though her heart would break. Great sobs that 
shook and buffeted her slender frame, leaving her 
quite spent, but more serene than she had been 
since that dreadful third of October. And she 
knew what her answer to Amory must be. She 
had said to Jimmy, “ always and forever, Jimsy, 
your girl V 9 And so it must be. Jim would never 
know, nor care; nevertheless with her it had to be 
as she had said, “always and forever,’’ to the 
very end. 


XVII 


Yet the next morning, as she set briskly forth 
to do the family marketing—Aunt Cindy said 
she ’d rather do the breakfast dishes any day than 
dress and go down-street in the forenoon!—the 
temptation was strongly upon her to discard the 
hard-won conclusion of the night. Life could be 
very alluring, as Amory’s wife. She dallied pleas¬ 
antly with the thought: suppose she were market¬ 
ing for Amory’s dinner; there might be guests, 
perhaps . . . The greetings of the trades¬ 

men, deferential, dignified—“good morning, Mrs. 
Booth; a beautiful morning! What can we do for 
you this morning, Mrs. Booth?”—in place of the 
casual “H’lo, Barb’ra; what’ll it be?”—of today, 
from the clerks who had known her all her life; 
the going home—to Amory’s house. Ah, why not? 
Why couldn’t she, after all, forget Jimmy as he 
had forgotten her, and try to find happiness with 
this other, who loved her as Jimmy surely never 
had ? Oh, if only she could! 

She would have all that any girl need ask: 
moderate wealth, assured position, the love of an 
earnest, generous man; little children, perhaps 
. . . How foolish to yearn for the moon! Yet 

even as she argued she knew it couldn’t be. The 
answer lay in her own heart, filled with such warm 
friendliness for Amory, but shaken to the depths 
by the very memory of the other, of his dear voice, 
his smile, the little tricks of manner . . . 

Barbara’s long association with Jimmy had 
given her an almost boyish sense of fairness; she 

202 



ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


203 


could not take so much and give so little. Besides 
—and she chilled at the thought—suppose she 
married Amory, and then after all Jimmy were 
some day, somehow, to come back into her life: 
could she trust her strength, and his? No, this 
was her tragedy; it never should be Amory’s as 
well! 

Her resolve newly strengthened and her er¬ 
rands done, Barbara was on her way home when 
she encountered Kitty Gerachty, matronly and 
serene, coming from St. Michael’s. The two 
greeted each other warmly; they didn’t very often 
meet since Kitty’s marriage and the arrival in 
rapid succession of the two little Gerachtys. 
Kitty had been to confession, she said, and had 
to hurry home to the babies, left in her mother’s 
care. Yes, they were perfectly well, and that 
sturdy! Joe was forever in mischief, and had to 
be watched every minute; and Baby Tim had two 
teeth already! 

Barbara felt a queer little pang at the busy pre¬ 
occupation of the other, a shock of repugnance 
at the cluttered emptiness of her own days, as 
Kitty chattered on about her mother and Uncle 
Tim and the children, and about Bill, who was 
doing fine in the new telephone company; why, 
this was the second time they had raised him 
since January! Yes, Barbara agreed, wasn’t that 
splendid! And she surely would come soon to 
visit Kitty and the babies. Kitty must bring them 
over, too, for Grandma Ferriss to see— 

Barbara’s dissatisfaction grew apace. She com¬ 
pared her lot with Kitty’s, and began to wonder, 
a little, as to when one stopped being ‘ 4 one of the 
girls” and began to be an old maid instead. The 
prospect wasn’t pleasing, even at twenty! And 


204 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


here was Kitty, scarcely older, and already pos¬ 
sessed of all her heart’s desire, while Barbara— 
why, even Kitty’s pagan comfort of “going to 
confession” was denied Barbara! 

In her present mood the idea of confession took 
on an unexpected interest, held an nnlooked-for 
appeal. Not the more or less formal “confes¬ 
sion ’ ’ of the average Catholic; Barbara smiled as 
she wondered what darksome sins Kitty could 
have dug up out of her busy, happy life, that she 
must needs confess to Father Christian! But 
Barbara had reached a place in her experience 
where she felt the need of a fresh viewpoint, if 
nothing more. She had brooded within herself 
until her hot-tongued lie to Stella Martine loomed 
a very mountain of iniquity, distorting her view 
of all things else, crushing every hopeful impulse, 
obscuring the sun itself. She couldn’t go on like 
this! 

Time and again she had tried to tell her trouble 
to Aunt Cindy, but the words would not come; 
moreover, she dreaded the family conclave that 
might ensue. Uncle Ben she knew would be in¬ 
stant in sympathy, but would be all for bringing 
Jimmy back from Paris by force, if need be, in 
order to insure Barbara’s peace of mind! 

But now the thought of Kitty and her errand 
led to another, of Father Christian’s freckled face, 
grave or jovial, but always kind. He would be 
busy at this hour, but later, perhaps—on the spur 
of the moment Barbara, entered the drug store 
and telephoned. . . . certainly, Father Chris¬ 

tian would see her—this afternoon at three. 

Well! She was in for it now! Barbara had a 
fleeting thought of Aunt Annameel—wouldn’t she 
be horrified!—and was glad, on the whole, that 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


205 


there would be no need to mention it—to anyone. 
Yet she felt - a certain conviction that the kindly 
priest, more than any other, would be able to set 
her feet on the right path. Even though he had 
nothing helpful to offer, it might clear the atmos¬ 
phere to view her folly through his far-seeing and 
understanding eyes. 

There was nothing so strange as might appear 
in Barbara’s feeling that Father Christian would 
be able to help. It was a feeling shared by half 
the population of Red Haven, regardless of creed, 
for in his fifteen years’ ministry at St. Michael’s 
he had endeared himself to Catholic and Protes¬ 
tant alike. And this in a day and a community in 
which the line between the faiths was closely 
drawn and rigidly adhered to! Why, even that 
crustiest of “hard-shell” Baptists, old Ezri Hig- 
ginson, the harness maker, who never before had 
been known to bestow the smallest measure of 
approval upon the benighted and unimmersed of 
other creeds than his own, spoke of Father Chris¬ 
tian as ‘ ‘ a gentleman, sir, and a Christian—Pope 
or no Pope!”—and was rather sorry that so good 
a man should have to be damned, through not 
being a Baptist! 

Father Christian’s closest personal friend was 
Judge Booth, Amory’s father, and senior warden 
at St. Barnabas ’; and many the fierce and friendly 
argument concerning Saint Peter and the Apos¬ 
tolic Succession, pursued beside the rectory fire 
of a winter evening. He had enemies, of course, 
as a man of his calibre is bound to have; indeed 
it was surmised by many, chuckling at his eccen¬ 
tricities, that the good Father was rather by way 
of being a thorn in the flesh of certain conservative 
dignitaries “higher up” in his denomination. 


206 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Certainly he did and said things that were—-well, 
probably not downright uncanonical, but without 
established precedent, to put it mildly. However, 
he was a most valuable man, who had built up a 
great church from small beginnings; his tongue 
was as sharp as his spirit was fearless; and being 
also a great disrespecter of persons, for the most 
part he went his way as he would. 

Children adored him, and his love for them 
knew no creed. A child was a child to him, 
whether rich or poor, Catholic or “non-Catholic,” 
black or white; indeed, his was no unfamiliar 
figure along the slatternly streets of the negro 
quarter, where the pickaninnies swarmed about 
him like little dusky moths attracted by his flam¬ 
ing hair, his ruddy face, and the glowing warmth 
of his smile. It was even told of him, gleefully, 
that he had been seen marching up exclusive Sum¬ 
mit Avenue one brilliant noontide, bearing on his 
shoulder an enormous basket of freshly laundered 
clothes, while a nondescript negro child, several 
sizes smaller than the basket, trotted at his side 
in animated converse! 

He seemed always in a hurry, striding along as 
though pursuing a golden minute that he couldn’t 
afford to lose; yet was never too busy to help little 
Lizzie McDermott with her arithmetic or Billy 
Harbie with his Latin, nor to play shinny-on-the- 
ice, on occasion, with the choir boys from St. 
Barnabas’. Winter afternoons often found him 
skating on the river with the boys and girls. He 
would come charging down the bank, his skates 
gleaming as they swung; a few deft tugs at the 
straps, and he was off at the head of the shrilling 
pack, coat tails flying, hat in hand to save it from 
the wind, which took what liberties it would with 



ANANIAS' DAUGHTER 


207 


his fiery mop of hair. For fifteen minutes, per¬ 
haps, he skated and shouted and sang, a boy with 
the. boys; then he was gone, to write a sermon or 
visit a sick bed— 

He was there that dreadful day when Gerald 
Heath and the two Hennessy boys broke through, 
and he it was who swept back the frightened chil¬ 
dren and fished the Hennessys out, afterward div¬ 
ing into the chill blackness to bring up Gerald, 
who had gone under the ice. All his days, in fact, 
were marked by deeds as benign if less heroic; 
you would see him guiding some palpitating old 
woman across a busy street, or pausing beside a 
trolley car to swing a group of children down 
from the too-high step, to the voluble gratitude of 
a bundle-laden mother. None was too high or too 
low for his hand to reach with needed help or 
sympathy; in mansion and in hovel his name was 
benison. 

With unobtrusive care he had watched Sophie 
Ferriss’ little girl through all her years. He had 
given heed, likewise, to the ways of both Jim 
Landridge and Amory Booth, perceiving that Bar¬ 
bara^ happiness might one day lie in the hands 
of one or the other; but could find no serious 
fault in either. . . . Once he had been instru¬ 

mental in pulling the two out of some youthful 
scrape—something that had to do with the dis¬ 
appearance of the Navesink Hotel “bus” one 
dark Halloween, and its subsequent discovery 
moored to the porch of the Methodist parsonage, 
with Lucius Blackthorn’s prize calf as its sole 
passenger. The calf, it appeared, sickened 
and died shortly afterward, and lawsuits 
threatened . . . 

It was of these things Barbara was thinking as 


208 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


she went to keep her appointment that afternoon, 
rather than of what she had to tell Father Chris¬ 
tian; so that in answer to his half-surprised, 
wholly pleasant, “well, child?” she blurted out 
her first thought: “Oh, Father Christian, I wish 
I were a Catholic!’ ’ 

Father Christian gave this due consideration, 
as he sat with elbows on chair arms, matching his 
fingertips with nice precision, ere he asked the 
obvious “why?” 

“Oh, because—if I were I could—oh, I don’t 
know! Enter a sisterhood, perhaps—anything so 
I’d have to work hard and not have time to think! 
Maybe if I had to do hard things all the time— 
make real sacrifices—if I just had to, I mean, 
maybe then I could forget—oh, Father Christian! 
It hurts so—I want to run somewhere and— 
hide! ’ ’ 

It was out at last; the rest was easy. Father 
Christian’s gentle—“and you want to tell me 
about that, the thing that’s hurting you?”—un¬ 
locked Barbara’s troubled heart, and in a rush of 
sobbing, breathless words she told the whole piti¬ 
ful tale, sparing herself not at all, blaming no one, 
not Jimmy nor Stella, nor anyone but herself. 
“Oh, how could I, how could I!” she moaned. 
“It wasn’t true, and I said it, and now I’ve lost 
the only thing that—” She ended in a storm of 
passionate weeping. 

Father Christian waited till she grew calmer; 
meanwhile taking off his glasses to polish them 
vigorously, but apparently not making a very 
good job of it, for having put them on, he imme¬ 
diately removed them and did it all over again. 
Then, when she was quiet: “But, Barbara, how 
am I to help? You know I will, if there’s any way 





ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


209 


I can; but—what about Mr. Seabrooke? He’s 
Jimmy’s pastor, and yours; isn’t he in a position 
to do more for you than I possibly could? Have 
you talked with him at all!” 

‘ ‘ Oh! ” Barbara fairly gasped. ‘ ‘ Tell Mr. Sea- 
brooke! Oh, I couldn’t, I couldn’t ever do that!” 

“But why not? Thought you liked Sea¬ 
brooke?” There was just the suspicion of a 
twinkle behind the shining glasses, but Barbara 
didn’t see it. 

“Oh, I do, a lot; every one does!” she cham¬ 
pioned, loyally. ‘ ‘ But—well, you see there’s Mrs. 
Seabrooke; he’d tell her, I suppose. Oh, I don’t 
mean she’d tell; she’s lovely, too, but I’d always 
be perfectly sure she knew!” 

Father Christian laughed outright, his big, 
jolly laugh. “Ha! Another argument for the 
celibacy of the clergy! ” he exulted. 

But Barbara was not to be diverted, and Father 
Christian became serious at once. 

‘ ‘ Ever thought of telling the boy all this, all that 
you’ve just been telling me? It might be a bit 
hard on your pride; but don’t you believe it would 
make a difference? Seems like you owed him 
some apology, come to think of it; what do you 
think ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, no, no, no! Don’t you see, that’s the one 
thing I can’t possibly do ? You don’t know Jimmy 
as I do. He’d be polite about it, but he’ll never 
change inside , not in a million years! Besides, I’d 
hate myself worse than ever if I went crawling to 
him that way, with a lot of excuses; I couldn’t do 
it. And—apologize! Oh, Father Christian, how 
can anyone ever ‘apologize’ for a thing like 
that ? ’ ’ 

“H’m. Well, I thought probably you’d feel 


210 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


that way. ’’ Then, after a moment, ‘*Just what do 
you want me to do about it?” 

“Do! Why, nothing; you mustn’t do any¬ 
thing!” Barbara grew quite panicky at the 
thought. “Oh, you must promise that you won’t 
do a single thing about it, nor say a word, not to 
Jimmy nor anybody!” 

“Then what—” 

“I want you to tell me what to do, to—forget, 
and maybe learn to feel differently about myself; 
I hate myself so! ” she finished miserably. 

“Like to get away somewhere, I suppose?” 

“Oh, I should like to!” 

“I see; new scenes; new associations; big, vital, 
absorbing things to do?” 

Father Christian must be a mindreader; it was 
so exactly what she had been thinking! (In truth 
he was but repeating, parrotlike, the formula that 
had been dinned into his ears by discontented and 
disconsolate youth, for lo, these many years!) 
“But you see, I can’t do that; Aunt Cindy isn’t 
strong; she needs me; I have to stay here!” 

“We-ell, don’t grieve for that, child; you’d be 
no better off. You can’t escape trouble nor over¬ 
take happiness by running here and there; you’ve 
got ’em right along with you, whether you go or 
stay. Better stay here and fight it out; then, when 
you win, it’s a real victory! ’ ’ 

“Fight it out, yes; but how? What can I do 
here, more than I have done ? ’ ’ 

“More? What have you done? Anything be¬ 
yond trying to stampede your unhappiness with 
the wand of pleasure? If you mean to fight, you 
need a worthier weapon. . . . There’s only 
one I can recommend, from personal experience: 
the sword of ‘do-unto-others.’ Oh, I know it’s 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


211 


old-fashioned, but it’s a good blade and a mighty 
blade, and it will prevail—only don’t poison it 
with a long face, a mask of martyrdom. Fighting 
with poisoned weapons isn’t—ethical! . . . 

Want to hear a story, Barbara?” 

“A story?” 

“Yes. A story about—your mother, and about 
a young man named Peter 0 ’Connor. ” 

So Father Christian, in a few quiet words, told 
Barbara the story you already know. “It’s some¬ 
times hard to tell what path leads to happiness, 
though we’re all sure we know it,” he ended, 
simply. “Looking back over the years, I can see 
that no enduring happiness would have come of 
such a union. Radical difference in religious be¬ 
lief isn’t a good thing to have in the family, 
generally speaking; sometimes it works out all 
right, but more often it leads to other differences 
not so easily reconciled. Your mother, I think, 
found real happiness with your father, in the few 
years they had together. David Thair had a 
poet’s soul, though he died too young to have been 
able to give it much expression. If he could have 
lived for the ripening of the years . . . And 

I found my happiness in my work. So you see 
there’s joy along every road; but you’ll never 
find it by hunting for it! Our souls are like our 
bodies—the less we think about them and tinker 
with them the healthier they ’re likely to be. Peter 
carved out his happiness with the sword of ‘do- 
unto-otherfc, ’ and the way it looks to me, Barbara, 
you’ll have to do the same. At the worst, you’ll 
get more out of it than from this modern craze for 
—wdiat do they say—‘self-expression’? Never 
fear; a self that has anything to express is going 


212 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


to express it, gagged and blindfolded and hand¬ 
cuffed and with cotton in its ears! ’’ 

“If you’ve got a heartache, hunt up somebody 
with a worse one and doctor that instead of your 
own. If the way looks dark to you—there are 
little blind children to whom it is far darker. If 
your feet stumble—there are those whose feet 
never have the chance. And with a world full of 
things to ‘do-unto-others’, you come here snivel¬ 
ling about a pain in your inside! ’ ’ 

It was like a tonic, a call to arms, a flood of light 
in a dark place. How silly she had been, to think 
her little trouble bigger than the sun! Barbara 
nodded comprehension. “That’s what I meant— 
about the sisterhood, you know. Oh, I don’t sup¬ 
pose I’d want to, really; probably I’m not fit to, 
anyway—I’m afraid I’m not made of very heroic 
stuff—and I know it would kill Grandmother! 
But just for the moment—the sisters always look 
so happy and at peace, in the shelter of their big 
bonnets, so shut in behind their white—their 
white—” Barbara broke off with true Protestant 
vagueness concerning Catholic nomenclature. 

“I think your feeling is the right one, Barbara. 
It isn’t the way out, for you. . . . Don’t 

think” he went on, gravely, his voice deepening 
with emotion, 4 4 that I should not welcome you into 
the Church with all my heart, if you were to 
decide, after deliberation and much prayer, that it 
is what you truly wish—and need—But I don’t 
want you to come blindly, driven by pain and re¬ 
morse, as you are now, expecting that by subscrib¬ 
ing to certain articles of belief you will find sur¬ 
cease from suffering. The mere act of kneeling 
at one altar or another will not automatically 
erase bitter memories; not even taking the veil, 




ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


213 


with all it involves of duty and sacrifice, will in¬ 
sure forgetfulness. . . . Indeed, it’s no church nor 
creed at all that ’ll he pullin ’ ye out of the slough 
of despond ye’re in, but the mercy of God and 
your own efforts! . . . There, now, run along with 
you; think I’ve nothing to do this day but sit and 
preach to you?”—the merry twinkle in his eyes 
belying the inhospitable words. 

Thus dismissed, Barbara had no choice but to 
go; feeling wonderfully comforted, though when 
she came to think of it, Father Christian really 
had said very little, after all, about the disaster 
that had turned her world topsy-turvy. He had 
uttered no word either of blame or of extenuation: 
ah, well, what was done, was done; that, she sup¬ 
posed, was resignation; and now came service; 
and perhaps some day, “by the mercy of God and 
her own efforts,” contentment. But happiness—? 

For a long, long time after Barbara left him, 
Father Christian sat pondering, head bowed, 
fingertips joined in that characteristic attitude of 
thought. And for the most part his ponderings 
were as to how, without violating his promise to 
Barbara, he might contrive to “bring that young 
jackass to his senses!” 

Barbara, hurrying home, smiled at the thought 
of winning happiness and peace of mind at the 
point of a sword, even the sword of service Father 
Christian had described. She looked at her right 
hand, seeming to see in its grasp that 4 1 good blade, 
that mighty blade” which he had assured her 
would prevail. She was still smiling a moment 
later, when in that same right hand she felt, not 
a sword hilt, but a warm, moist, and undeniably 


214 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


sticky little paw, and found Jierself looking down 
into two trusting blue eyes, entirely surrounded 
by dirt. 

“P’ease tate I yoine, Yady; tate I yome!” the 
soiled one implored. 

“Wh-wdiy!” exclaimed the much-astonished 
“Yady”; “Why, mercy, yes, I ? 11 take you home; 
where do you live? And what’s your name?” 

“Edad-Doodad-yiv-to-fo-ni-hoobyane!” was the 
incomprehensible reply, which the grubby mite 
repeated patiently again and again at her behest. 
“Edad-Doodad!” It might be the child’s name, 
Barbara supposed; but what? And “yiv”— 
“live,” perhaps? But “to-fo-ni!” And 
“hoobyane!” 

Something vaguely familiar in the sound of the 
last syllables at length furnished a clue: Shrews¬ 
bury Lane? She started her charge hopefully in 
that direction, pondering meanwhile the rest of 
his cryptic utterance. “Ni—fo-ni”—four nine? 
Forty-nine? “Live at forty-nine Shrewsbury 
Lane?” she translated tentatively. 

“To-fo-ni, to- fo-ni!” insisted the urchin. 

i 1 Two-forty-nine ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Too! ’ ’ was the contented response, which sub¬ 
sequent conversation proved to be Edad-Doodad’s 
interpretation of the affirmative. Barbara felt 
a glow of pride, which became a positive thrill on 
reaching 249 Shrewsbury Lane, where a distracted 
mother fell upon them both and embraced them 
alternately. 

It was not until Barbara was almost home that 
the realization came: “Why, that’s the very kind 
of thing Father Christian himself is always 
doing!” and she knew then that her new sword 
was indeed a keen and kindly weapon. Not that 


ANANIAS * DAUGHTER 


215 


she wouldn’t have helped the little lost baby in any 
event, without the stimulus of Father Christian’s 
words; but her talk with him had given her under¬ 
standing, so that she herself might derive sorely- 
needed help from the little act of kindness. She, 
too, had been lost; but by the glow at her heart 
and the lightening of her spirit, she knew she was 
on the right road at last. 


XVIII 


Not every thrust of Barbara ’s new sword struck 
home, however, nor rendered her its measure of 
easement. She learned that service doesn’t always 
meet with gratitude, and that to serve truly she 
must do it for its own sake, not for the pleasure 
of being thanked. She found that there were 
many hard things that were not heroic nor spec¬ 
tacular ; one of them, and the one oftenest required 
of her, being to bear with the infirmities of age in 
the person of Grandma Ferriss, now grown to be 
a very old lady indeed; a dear old lady, to be sure, 
but “trying” at times, as even the dearest of old 
ladies is apt to be. 

It was natural for Barbara’s youth to chafe 
under the restrictions Grandma’s old-fashioned 
notions would impose—the peculiar deadliness of 
the night air, because of which wraps must be 
worn after sunset, regardless of temperature; the 
corresponding deadliness of “drafts,” especially 
on the back of one’s neck; the reiterated cautions 
as to doing this and avoiding that, which her love 
for her only grandchild seemed to make impera¬ 
tive. It was easy, too, to show impatience or bore¬ 
dom at oft-told tales, perhaps not uproariously 
funny in the first place. Barbara realized that, 
though she loved Grandma Ferriss dearly, she had 
insensibly slipped into the habit of ignoring her 
much of the time because it was less bother. Now, 
taking a fresh grip of her sword of “do-unto¬ 
others,” she resolved not only to curb her irrita¬ 
tion, but to substitute an active for a passive cour- 

216 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


217 


tesy toward the old lady. That had been one of 
Jimmy’s nice ways—“jollying Grandma,” he 
called it. 

So when Grandma Ferriss, seemingly under the 
impression that the family had never heard it, 
began for the hundredth time her story about old 
“Poppy” Dunker, up York State, who having 
buried his wife, had straightway provided himself 
with another and much younger one, and who 
used to say delightedly, “Vy, efery dime ven I 
hears mine new vife’s liddle feet a-comin’ piddy- 
pat-piddy-pat on der stairs, I tink to mineselluf, 
‘My, aind’t I glad I put dot ole sick vife of mine 
in der cemetery und got me a nice liddle new 
vife! ’ ’ ’—she was surprised to hear a giggle from 
Barbara’s side of the table. Pleased and en¬ 
couraged, she told the one about the old woman 
who became too ill to prepare supper for her 
farmer son, digging potatoes in the field. “You 
know, Willum,” she excused herself, “T’under 
alius make me so dreffle sick! ’ ’ 

“But, Ma,” protested Willum, “there ain’t 
been no thunder ; the sun’s been a-shinin’ the hull 
arfternoon!” 

“Mebbe so,” was the reply, “but all the same it 
t ’undered and it t ’undered, and it made me dreffle 
sick, same way it alius do! ” 

“And she was, too!” Grandma Ferriss would 
add; “but the thunder she heard”—here Grand¬ 
ma would pause with dramatic intent—“why, it 
was nothing in the world but jest potatoes bein’ 
dumped into the bin in the cellar! ’ ’ 

This time Barbara laughed outright, and Aunt 
Cindy and Uncle Ben also, in sympathy. Bar¬ 
bara’s laugh was a pleasant thing to hear at any 
time, and they hadn’t had any too much of it 


218 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


lately. As for Barbara, she was thinking, ‘ ‘ Why, 
Grandma’s stories are funny, kind of, when you 
really listen to them; and you can’t deny, Barbara 
Thair, that she tells them well!”—and instantly 
silenced the base thought, 4 ‘Well she ought to; she 
gets practice enough! ’ ’ 

Not that Grandma Ferriss was an inveterate 
story teller; for the most part she maintained her 
old habit of silence, save when some chance re¬ 
mark led her into a long lane of reminiscence that 
apparently had no turning. One other thing could 
always be depended on to throw Grandma into a 
fit of positive garrulity, or so it seemed to Bar¬ 
bara Ann; that was the sight of some member of 
the family with book in hand, or about to write a 
letter! 

In this respect Barbara had come to regard 
Grandma Ferriss as her special grievance; she 
never dreamed that Aunt Cindy, too, had some¬ 
times to control an impatience as great as Bar¬ 
bara’s own. But one evening, when Grandma had 
effectually routed the train of ideas Aunt Cindy 
was trying to incorporate in a letter to some of 
Uncle Ben’s folks in California, and had taken 
herself off to bed in high good humor, Aunt Cindy 
laughed ruefully. 

“Well, you see,” she explained, to Barbara’s 
glance of inquiry, “Ma is getting old, and old peo¬ 
ple are apt to be a little bit—well, difficult; just a 
little, the same as young people are sometimes, 
you know!”—with a sly glance at Barbara, who 
laughed at the good-natured thrust. 

“Am I so very bad, then, Aunt Cindy?” she 
asked, with amused contrition. 

“You? Bad? You’re the dearest chick in the 
•world! ’ ’ Aunt Cindy averred, and meant it, too. 


ANANIAS' DAUGHTER 


219 


“And Ma is the dearest old lady in the world; not 
nearly so trying* as lots of old ladies—yes, and old 
gentlemen, too!" Aunt Cindy giggled reminis¬ 
cently - . “Now there was old Johnny Raymond, 
out in Ashtabula. He lived with his son and 
daughter-in-law. Young John had done well; he 
made lots of money and they lived in great style. 
But every single day, after dinner, old Johnny 
would take out his false teeth, both plates, and put 
them to soak in his fingerbowl! Poor Lil finally 
had to give up fingerbowls-" 

Together they went off into a gale of laughter; 
and with their tears wiped away every vestige of 
irritation with Grandma Ferriss and her ways. 

It was at about this time that Barbara insti¬ 
tuted her weekly visit to Aunt Annameel—some¬ 
what in the spirit of a penitent donning his hair 
shirt. Each Friday afternoon she went to Hepzi- 
bah House, usually bearing an offering of home¬ 
made cake or some other dainty for the women's 
supper, for she suspected that all three paid 
rather more attention to their souls than to their 
stomachs; and for an hour or more sat in the 
stuffy little parlor, now speaking of family mat¬ 
ters, now bombarded with scriptural texts and 
halleluias from three sides, the other two sharing 
with Aunt Annameel a sense of responsibility for 
Barbara's salvation and a genuine desire to do 
her good. The afternoon usually wound up with a 
season of prayer for Barbara's unregenerate soul, 
that she might be turned from the darkness of 
Episcopacy into the way of light and life. And it 
did do Barbara good, for she learned that hardest 
of all lessons to the young, tolerance; and with it 
a vast respect for these women, who didn't mind 



220 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


being thought u queer” for the sake of their faith. 

She learned to look upon the exaltation that 
found utterance in shouts of ‘ 1 Praise the Lord!” 
and “Glory, Glory!” as the same feeling that 
came over her in church, when they sang the Te 
Deum or the Gloria in Excelsis—why, the very 
words meant the same! Surely they had as much 
right to their way as she to hers! And they, while 
they pitied her profoundly, thought her the 
sweetest flower in the formal garden of the world, 
needing only to be transplanted, and watered with 
the Spirit, to bloom into full righteousness among 
the Children of Light. 

Aunt Annameel’s streaks of worldliness, more¬ 
over, amused Barbara mightily. Sandwiched be¬ 
tween references to prophets and archangels, 
would be sly allusions to young Doctor Mac- 
Kenzie; did Barbara hear from him? Ah, well, it 
was all vanity, the earthly marriage; praise the 
Lord, she had been spared that hindrance to the 
fulness of life eternal. And that young Wells— 
Cousin Savory wrote that he was making a great 
deal of money—had patented some new kind of 
breakfast food, made of whole buckwheat. But 
money was only a stumbling block, unless used for 
the furtherance of the Kingdom on earth. Didn’t 
Barbara remember what it said in Luke eighteen 
and twenty-three ? 

There was no merit, Barbara found, in being 
nice to Aunt Cindy and Uncle Ben. She must 
have been churlish indeed to act otherwise toward 
them, but she redoubled her efforts to help and 
please both. She spent days with Uncle Ben in 
the store, helping him 4 ‘take stock” preparatory 
to moving into fine new quarters in the Hendrick¬ 
son Block. Indefatigably she labored, handling 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


221 


the dusty tools, sorting bolts and screws and 
hinges, counting, listing, checking, till her back 
ached and her fingers were sore and so begrimed 
that she began to fear they never would be clean 
again. And then Uncle Ben had produced some 
■wonderful soap, which had taken off the dirt quite 
magically; and against her laughing protest that 
she hadn’t done half enough, he sent her home 
with a ‘ ‘ Run along, Skeezicks! I don’t want any 
dull Jacks at the supper table!” 

Then Barbara bethought her of Father Chris¬ 
tian’s injunction, and took care thereafter to 
leaven the lump of her willing service with a 
measure of frivolity, in order that Jack shouldn’t 
be a dull boy for good, good Uncle Ben! 

The first anniversary of that direful third of 
October was a day of desperate activity to Bar¬ 
bara Ann. She dashed from one disagreeable 
task to another in a frantic endeavor to beat back 
the unwelcome thoughts that came crowding upon 
her, did her vigilance relax ever so little. So 
furiously did she work that when she had polished 
Aunt Cindy’s cookstove to a dusky mirror; scrub¬ 
bed upon her hands and knees the already spotless 
kitchen floor till it gleamed creamily white in even 
the most un-get-at-able corners; when she had 
cleaned the silver, and all the skillets and sauce¬ 
pans hung in glittering array, and Aunt Cindy 
wouldn’t let her do a single thing more, to Bar¬ 
bara’s despair it was hardly yet mid-afternoon. 

Hurriedly she bathed and dressed, casting about 
in her mind for tasks to employ the remaining 
hours till bedtime. She might, she reflected, write 
those long-deferred letters for Aunt Cindy. Of 
late Aunt Cindy was inclined to regard letter¬ 
writing as a burdensome task to be postponed, 


222 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


when possible, to a more convenient season, and 
it was Barbara who finally came to shoulder the 
burden of the family correspondence. 

Thus it came about that after rummaging for 
pens and paper and addresses, with indifferent 
success, Barbara declared war upon the old secre¬ 
tary in the living-room, which served the whole 
family not only as a desk, but likewise as a con¬ 
venient repository for innumerable odds and ends 
that didn’t seem to belong anywhere else. It 
hadn’t really been cleared out in years, although 
Aunt Cindy had made many a brave beginning; 
but what with various matters pertaining to 1 1 the 
store,” and Barbara’s old school themes and in¬ 
vitations and notes, and the inconsequent family 
communications which Grandma Ferriss never 
would allow to be destroyed, she gave up in 
despair, threatening to clear it out with a shovel 
some day! So that the sight of Barbara with 
sleeves rolled up, the light of battle in her eyes, 
cheered her exceedingly. 

Apparently there were to be no half measures. 
Barbara was making a clean sweep, bundling 
Uncle Ben’s business correspondence to be taken 
down to the store, sorting Aunt Cindy’s letters 
for her personal perusal, and destroying much of 
her own share of the accumulation. 

It was the very day for such a task. Outside, 
the world was drenched in a cold autumnal rain, 
at times becoming a veritable downpour that 
drummed deafeningly upon the porch roof and 
dashed against the window panes as if furious at 
being kept from the cheerful warmth within. A 
fire crackled and sputtered on the hearth, and 
Grandma Ferriss sat knitting beside it, basking in 
its heat quite as blissfully as did the big gray cat 


ANANIAS' DAUGHTER 


223 


stretched out on the rug. Not Ethel, of course; 
he long since had gone a-mousing in the happy 
hunting-grounds of his tribe. This was of a later 
generation of cats, by name Tiglath-Pileser, but 
commonly called Mike. 

Insensibly Barbara relaxed to the comfort of 
the cheery room. Busily she sorted and bundled 
and tied and tagged, so that by supper time the 
old secretary was in a most surprising state of 
emptiness. Even Grandma’s cherished Christmas 
cards and marriage announcements, and the let¬ 
ters telling of Cousin Henry’s death and the birth 
of Carrie Hanchell’s first baby, and the ones 
Cousin Mary Eustace wrote from Honolulu, 
were all neatly labelled and stowed away in the 
deep bottom drawer. 

“Now, then, folks!” proclaimed Barbara gaily, 
when, Uncle Ben home from the store and Aunt 
Cindy hurrying in from the kitchen, the family 
stood about in speechless admiration, “Attendez! 
Observe! also, Lookit! The little drawer and 
spaces on this side are yours, Uncle Ben; these 
are Aunt Cindy’s. The row across the top be¬ 
longs to me, and the two in the middle are for 
Grandma. ’ ’ 

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” she added 
impressively, producing with a flourish a very 
pink china pig with a slit in its back, a relic of 
her childhood, “allow me to introduce His Ex¬ 
cellency, Paddy the Pig! He lives behind the ink- 
stand; has a most awful appetite; eats nickels 
exclusively, and has to be fed one every time a let¬ 
ter or anything happens to stray into the wrong 
pigeonhole. When he’s fat enough we’ll butcher 
him and give the pork to the Salvation Army! 


224 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Well, how about it? All right, then; this way, 
Paddy. There we are! ’ ’ 

So Paddy the Pig became a family institution, 
and Barbara lettered some visiting cards with 
nonsensical reminders such as “Paddy’s hungry; 
Uncle Ben to the rescue!” ‘ 4 Aunt Cindy, please 
give Paddy his supper,” and “Oh, Miss Barb’ra, 
you’re a robber, feed the pig, feed the pig!’’ And 
another, “Grandma dear, ain’t you ’shamed! 
Paddy’ll starve, and you’ll be blamed!” Grandma 
Ferriss entered into the game with great glee, 
and Barbara even suspected her of now and then 
slipping a letter into a wrong compartment pur¬ 
posely, for the sheer joy of seeing her forfeit card 
propped up against Paddy’s snout! 

So Barbara found that each day brought its op¬ 
portunity for service, both at home and abroad. 
It might be but the restoring of a crutch dropped 
by a cripple, or dismissing with a smile instead 
of a scowl, the perennial peddler at their door. 
But once, when Miss Ferguson’s mother was 
taken ill on the eve of Milly Hendrickson’s wed¬ 
ding, Barbara had turned to and sewed all night 
under Miss Ferguson’s direction, so that Milly’s 
dress was finished in time, and the little dress¬ 
maker could give her mother needed care. 

Again, she spent hours making gay scrapbooks 
for the children in the infirmary at the “Nor- 
fumsilun”; made them small and light, not to 
tire wee hands weakened by illness, but pasted 
chock full of the prettiest and jolliest and most 
colorful pictures she could find, or beg, or buy. 
Again it was but the task of keeping her temper 
when Cousin Mary Lane, presuming on age and 
relationship, asked her if she weren’t ashamed to 
keep poor Amory dangling at her heels; why 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


225 


didn’t she put him out of his misery, and let some 
other girl have him, if she didn’t want him her¬ 
self? 

Even that Barbara did, outwardly; and had the 
satisfaction of knowing that her serene “I think 
Amory understands, Cousin Mary,” was a more 
potent rebuke than any storm of angry denials 
could have been. 

Thus she went on from day to day, coining con¬ 
tentment from the hard metal of her suffering, 
growing out of her bitterness into a sweet and gay 
and gracious womanhood. The old ache was still 
there, but buried so deeply beneath her new inter¬ 
est in the lives of others that at times she almost 
forgot its existence. Almost, but never quite. 
There were gloomy days and nights of black dis¬ 
couragement, when it would push itself to the sur¬ 
face and taunt her: “Oh, I’m here yet! All this 
does very well, of course; but what wouldn’t you 
give to have your Jimmy back instead!” Oh, 
merciful Heaven, how she wanted Jimmy! 

Of course she long ago had told Amory that he 
mustn’t think of her in that way any more. She 
wouldn’t let him hope when there wasn’t any 
hope. She wished she could care for him as he 
deserved, dear, patient fellow that he was; what 
a lover he would be, what a husband, for some 
girl! But for her, since it couldn’t be Jimmy, 
there just couldn’t ever be anyone at all, not even 
Amory! 

He had taken it quietly, and as quietly answered 
her: “It’s all right, Bobs,” he said; “you mustn’t 
be distressed about it. And I’m not going to an¬ 
noy you, either, but if you don’t mind I’ll ask you 
again sometime. I can't give you up, dear, so 
long as you are free. And you’ll let me see you 


226 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


and take you around the same as ever, won’t you! 
You’ll give me an even chance with the others?” 

And that is the way it was settled. Amory kept 
his word and did not speak of the matter again for 
a long, long time, and Barbara was glad of his 
companionship, of his steady dependableness, his 
never-failing gentleness and tact. 


XIX 


Barbara had another interest these days, which 
grew out of the incident of the old secretary. In 
the course of that orgy of orderliness which 
marked the advent of Paddy the Pig, she came 
upon a bundle of essays, compositions and the 
like, relics of her English classes in High School. 
One was a little story of schooldays, written as a 
class exercise; Miss Hampton had thought highly 
of it, she remembered. Now she paused in her 
rummaging to read it over, making a few correc¬ 
tions and annotations, and laid it aside. That 
evening she read it again and made more changes, 
finally rewriting it entirely. She was delighted 
with the ease with which ideas came to her, the 
quaint turn of a phrase, some unexpected facility 
of expression. She would read it again in the 
morning, to see whether cold daylight would rob 
it of its overnight smoothness and charm. 

A week or so later, after a final polishing, Bar¬ 
bara gave her story to Aunt Cindy to read, and to 
Uncle Ben. Not for their judgment upon her 
work—that would be of little value, for they would 
read through the rose-colored spectacles of their 
love; but she wanted the courage their approval 
might bestow, to slip it into an envelope and send 
it to a more exacting judge on some editorial 
bench. At that time, though later she came to be 
on terms of friendly intimacy with more than one 
of the species, editors were fearsome folk to Bar¬ 
bara Ann! 


227 


228 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


But despite her fears, in due course the little 
story was on its way; and in due course it came 
home again, escorted by a printed slip, the word¬ 
ing of which Barbara thought unnecessarily po¬ 
lite. Still there was a ray of comfort even here, 
for across the back of the slip the editor of Mc¬ 
Kecknie’s Magazine had written a few words of 
criticism and encouragement, with the suggestion 
that she ‘ ‘ try again.’ ’ And she did try again and 
yet again, till she thought Mr. Editor surely 
would regret having suggested it; but at last one 
of her homing pigeons came accompanied by a 
courteous note, expressing regret that Mc¬ 
Kecknie’s Magazine could not use the excellent 
story enclosed, and offering the suggestion that it 
was perhaps more in line with the work appearing 
in some of the other publications. Had she, for 
instance, ever submitted anything to The Amulet f 
The editor of McKecknie’s hoped to have the 
pleasure of examining such of Miss Thair’s future 
work as—etc., etc., etc. 

Barbara had an uneasy feeling the editor of 
McKecknie’s wished to shift to other shoulders 
the burden of her too constant endeavor! If so, 
he did her a kindness unaware, for her subsequent 
check from The Amulet was the first of many, not 
only from that magazine but from others as well, 
and ere long from McKecknie’s itself. 

Now Barbara’s persistence was not without due 
reason. McKecknie’s was her goal, not for any 
super-excellence of its own, but because, of all 
the popular periodicals of the day, it was Jim¬ 
my’s favorite. She knew of old that when he 
bought and read a magazine, aside from the 
journals of his craft, it was likely to be Mc¬ 
Kecknie’s; and in spite of all that had come be- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


229 


tween them, she wanted Jimmy to read what she 
wrote. Perhaps he might find something of the 
old Barbara between the lines, earlier and pleas¬ 
anter memories that might help, just a little, to 
dim that later and uglier one. 

That was all, at first; but presently the idea 
began to take definite form, fascinating her more 
and more the bigger it grew: there was a way to 
tell Jimmy! Already the plot was unfolding in 
her mind—the tragedy of two lives marred by a 
girl’s unconsidered speech to another girl. She 
would take the text of her own mad words, and 
fit it to the context of her provocation, with far- 
reaching consequences, and of course, a thrilling 
climax, after which 4 ‘they” might or might not 
4 Give happy ever after”; that she could decide 
when she came to it. 

Barbara realized that it could make no real 
difference; nothing she could do would bring 
Jimmy back to her now; she had said what she 
had said, and there was no unsaying it, no justify¬ 
ing it to him nor to herself. All she wished or 
hoped was that she might make him understand, in 
some degree, the shame and hurt resentment that 
had found their way from her heart to her lips 
that day. Surely Jimmy must know that to be 
jilted is a frightful thing to happen to a girl; but 
to be twitted of it, as Stella had covertly twitted 
her, with no power to refute the insinuation—that 
was the hurt unbearable! 

How Barbara did work that winter, the third 
since Jimmy went abroad! It was hard work, too, 
for she felt sorely the lack of the college training 
she had been obliged to forego, being unwilling to 
accept of Uncle Ben and Aunt Cindy the sacrifices 
they would cheerfully, but of necessity, have 


230 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


made in order to send her away to school. So she 
set to work, by reading and study, to bridge the 
gap between her equipment and her need, and the 
days were all too short for her varied tasks; yet 
her contentment grew day by day, keeping pace 
with the progress of the new story. 

And when it was done and it seemed to the 
author that she could not further improve it, she 
laid it aside for months, that she might later 
seek out defects with unfamiliar eye. Laughingly 
she told Aunt Cindy that this was to be her 
masterpiece, and with ready interest Aunt Cindy 
contrived for her long uninterrupted hours for her 
work; for Aunt Cindy, no less than Uncle Ben, 
was tremendously proud of Barbara’s small 
measure of success. She avowed that she had ex¬ 
pected it all along; had seen it coming, in fact, on 
a certain day when Barbara was ten or there¬ 
abouts, and picking up a stray leaf from a note¬ 
book, she had read in childish script the following 
thrilling fragment: 

“. . . with a hourse cry he seized her in his 
arms and hurryed to the deck. He gazzed upon 
her beautifull golden curls and her deep violet 
eyes fast-closed as she swoned in his arms, and 
solomonly swore that never again would he alow 
her to be torn from his graps, let Bruce Mac- 
Farlane do his worse! But at that momment a 
heavy—” 

Truly it seemed that Aunt Cindy’s faith was 
justified. The budding literary light of a dozen 
years before, having vanquished double con¬ 
sonants and other eccentricities of English spell¬ 
ing, was fast making 44 Barbara Thair” a name to 
conjure with. 

But with no overt encouragement from Aunt 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


231 


Annameel, you may be sure I Oh, the waste, the 
awful waste of time—precious time, and so little 
of it left in which to prepare for the Great Day! 
The waste of money, with manuscripts going back 
and forth—why, what she spent for stamps alone 
might, if directed aright, be the means of salva¬ 
tion for some soul now lost forever! And the sin¬ 
ful waste of time and money, too, on the part of 
those who would read such trash, when they might 
be dwelling on the precious promises of the 
Word! 

Barbara tried not to mind—and didn’t, after 
the time she happened in on a Thursday instead 
of Friday, and surprised Aunt Annameel ab¬ 
sorbed in something very secular-looking in a 
jade green paper cover, which she hustled out 
of sight under a copy of The Mission Weekly. It 
couldn’t have been, of course—yet that jade green 
cover certainly was the exact shade which dis¬ 
tinguished The Amulet , set it apart from its con¬ 
temporaries ! 



XX 


Jimmy’s fourth and last year at the Beaux Arts 
was nearing its close when a great sorrow again 
shook the foundations of his world. His mother’s 
death occurred quite suddenly, although she 
hadn’t been really well for a long time, and Cousin 
Camilla Winslow had come North to stay with 
her. Still, her condition had not been deemed 
serious enough to warrant sending for Jimmy; in¬ 
deed she had written most cheerfully to the very 
last, making light of her illness, and even planning 
the vacation trip they would take together when 
he should return. 

Since it would be impossible for Jimmy to reach 
home before the funeral, Judge Booth, who had 
charge of Mrs. Landridge’s affairs, wrote that he 
might as well, if he wished, remain abroad until 
his work there was finished. It was undoubtedly 
what his mother would have advised; he (the 
judge) would look after things in the meantime, 
there being nothing which required Jim’s im¬ 
mediate attention. Miss Winslow would stay on 
until he returned, or as long as he wanted her to 
stay; Jimmy would find her there, and the house 
open, whenever he was ready to come home. 

With this permission Jimmy delayed week by 
week, persuading himself that he needed another 
month or two in Italy, in southern France, in 
Germany. Then he dallied in London a fortnight 
or more, dreading to come back to his native land, 
back to the loneliness of the big house, dreading 

232 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


233 


still more the inevitable meeting with his old play¬ 
mate, once for a little, little space his sweetheart, 
so dear, so dear. . . . 

Jimmy tried in vain to determine just how he 
did feel about Barbara Ann. He had gone away, 
blazing with wrath, sick with injured pride, disap¬ 
pointed, disillusioned, vowing to erase from mind 
and heart all remembrance of the girl who had so 
wounded and betrayed him. He had tried, very 
hard indeed he had tried, for four long years. 
First he had tried to wipe away, with hate for a 
sponge, the memory of their last meeting: the 
broad porch with its wicker and chintz; Barbara’s 
face upturned to his in the moonlight—Judas’ 
kisses! he sneered. ... Of a sudden he seemed 
to feel again the sickening sidewise tilt of a cap¬ 
sizing boat; again he grew cold with horror as 
he saw the water close above a dark, childish 
head—Here, here! This would never do! The 
way to forget a woman, of course, was—women! 
Why hadn’t he thought of that before ? 

So, with vague melodramatic thoughts of con¬ 
quest and intrigue, ending, of course, when he 
ceased to be amused—never again would you catch 
Jim Landridge tying himself up to a woman!—he 
snatched at the first chance that offered, and be¬ 
gan to answer Stella Martine’s letters; until, 
growing ever more fervid, they filled him with dis¬ 
gust more potent than his carefully fostered 
wrath at Barbara Ann. She hadn’t been like that! 
Ah, the sweet, shy coolness of her, always! 

A dozen scenes flashed upon the screen of his 
memory, till once more he had to pull himself up 
sharply, lashing his anger to keep it raging. 
Quite as abruptly he ceased writing to Stella. He 
told himself that he ought to be grateful to her 


234 


ANANIAS' DAUGHTER 


for putting him wise; at the same time he found 
nothing to admire in the service she had rendered 
him, nor in her for the rendering of it. “ Catty," 
the women would call it. Barbara never would 
have tattled as Stella had done! Jimmy knew it— 
a most inconsistent warmth about his heart. 

Well, it didn’t have to he Stella. There were 
other women—in Paris, especially. . . . Some of 
them he didn’t like to think about afterward, and 
found himself thinking of Barbara instead: now 
of that Easter morning in the little gray church 
at home, when their eyes had met and flashed a 
message; now of the happy ‘ ‘ crabbing parties ’ ’ of 
childhood; again .... He had tried absinthe, and 
found that a little of it only made matters worse; 
he became lugubriously sentimental, and the only 
thing he could forget about Barbara was that he 
hated her. Whereupon he imbibed it in greater 
quantity, with somewhat better success, for he for¬ 
got not only Barbara, but also his own name and 
where he lived; and by the time he was able to re¬ 
member these he felt really too ill to care whether 
he hated anybody or not. Then repentance fol¬ 
lowing upon recovery plunged him into his work, 
and in this he found respite at last, for while he 
worked he neither loved nor hated. 

So the four years had worn themselves away, 
and Jimmy was coming home to his empty house 
—empty, at least, of the presence that had made it 
home to him; back to the unavoidable meeting 
with the girl he had tried to forget and couldn’t, 
whom he wanted to hate and wanted to hold once 
more in his arms.... 

A letter from Father Christian which he re¬ 
ceived while in London, had something to do with 
his final decision to come on home and get it over 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 235 

with. Not. that the letter itself was urgent; 
Father Christian wrote of trivial matters: some 
books Mrs. Landridge had promised for the hos¬ 
pital, the dastardly deeds of the present “ reform’’ 
administration in Red Haven, the price of 
peaches; not till the postscript did he speak of 
Jimmy’s return, and then in enigmatic fashion: 
“I misdoubt whether you deserve it, but I’m pray¬ 
ing for you, son, that kind Heaven this once may 
not recompense the fool according to his folly!” 

What had he meantf He had written before, 
soon after Mrs. Landridge’s death, a letter of 
sympathy and kindly feeling; Jimmy had replied; 
but this—Father Christian was not the man to 
write a letter simply to inform his correspondent 
of the exorbitant charges of the fruit merchants; 
the books for the hospital could wait, and Red 
Haven politics concerned Jimmy not at all. It 
was a hard nut to crack, and the kernel quite clear¬ 
ly lay in the postscript. So he came home, won¬ 
dering. . . . 

He had no intention of staying any longer than 
necessary. He would settle up his affairs and 
light out, back to Chicago, where a job and a wel¬ 
come awaited him. If Father Christian meant— 
well, he wouldn’t stay to complicate matters for 
old Amory; for old time’s sake he supposed he 
owed Barbara that much, as well. Yes, he’d go 
at once. . . . 

It was a sad homecoming for Jim Landridge, 
alighting at the dingy station, setting out on his 
dreary climb toward the house on the hill. The 
very elements seemed in league with his mood, 
for a day of fog and gloom had settled into a 
steady, persistent downpour. Plodding through 
the rain-splashed dusk, he thought gratefully of 


236 


ANANIAS , DAUGHTER 


Cousin Camilla’s presence as he caught sight of 
the brightly lighted windows, though it was yet 
early; and he was touched and comforted by the 
preparations she had made for his coming. She 
fussed over him delightfully, and made him get 
out of his damp clothing and into house-coat and 
slippers before he ate the hot supper she had 
waiting. It certainly was very comfortable. 
Cousin Camilla’s southern cooking, too; he hadn’t 
thought that he was hungry, but he did eat! 
There was “smothered” chicken, and watercress, 
and sourwood honey, and cornbread made of white 
meal, and peaches and cream for dessert—a 
famous meal for a man fresh from four years of 
Continental food! Jimmy wondered, as he ate, 
who started that ancient superstition about the 
superiority of French cooks and French cookery, 
anyhow! 

When, after supper, he settled down in his 
favorite chair with pipe and book, the while 
Cousin Camilla, scorning his proffered assistance, 
“did the dishes,” it was with a distinct sense of 
the lightening of his burden of grief and loneli¬ 
ness. The kind soul continued to flutter about him 
in a chirrupy sort of way, patting his shoulder, 
bringing matches for his pipe—“Of cou’se you 
may smoke, as much as you like. Mind? Why, I 
love it!” and would not leave him until assured 
that not another thing could be done for his 
further comfort. And then she came back, after 
all, with the evening paper and a new magazine, 
still in its wrapper. 

Jimmy glanced interestedly over the paper. 
Red Haven hadn’t boasted an evening paper, nor 
indeed a daily of any kind, when he went away. 
The general news he already had read on the 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


237 


train down from the city; so he turned at once 
to the “society” columns. Heavens! Who were 
all these people? Names he never had heard, 
many of them, and in only four years! Well, here 
was one that looked more familiar: “Miss Ethel 
Harbie entertained at luncheon and bridge. 
Among those present—h-m—Cordelia Smith, Jes¬ 
sie Spaulding, Mrs. Howard Ames”—well, well, 
that old bell-wether roped at last, eh? Clever girl, 
whoever she is!—h-mm—“May Lansing, Louise 
Wright, Anne Langman”—Huh! Used to call 
’em Mamie, and Lulu, and Annie! Well, that 
seemed to be all, of the old crowd. . . . And here 
was an item about Bud Wilkinson—h-mm—“re¬ 
sume his studies at Princeton”—h-mm—must be 
Harry’s kid brother. Why, great scott! He was 
in the grammar grades the last Jimmy knew! 

Well, what else? Hello! Well, great mackerel! 
“William F. Smith, our up-to-date photographer, 
will specialize in children’s portraits hereafter. 
He’s got a boy of his own now, born September 
11, weight eight pounds. Welcome to our city, 
William F., Jr.! Pass the cigars, Dad!” 

Well, well! Old 4 ‘ Bull, ” eh ? Have to hunt him 
up tomorrow and get in on those smokes! Jimmy 
grinned in anticipation. . . . Ah! “At a luncheon 
given today by the Misses Janet and Addie Pat¬ 
terson for Miss Stella Martine, the engagement 
of the guest of honor was announced in delight¬ 
fully novel fashion—” 

Jimmy’s lips tightened in sudden pain; de¬ 
scended upon him all those memories he had 
fought so desperately, memories of the cruel thing 
she had told him—to this day he could not endure 
that choking odor of mingled drugs and choco¬ 
late ; memories of Barbara—Ah! as well strive to 


238 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


blot out every recollection of bis boyhood, for the 
thought of her was entwined with each and every 
one! 

He read on mechanically, making no sense of 
the words, till the closing sentence startled him 
out of his bitter abstraction: “Miss Martine’s 
marriage to Prof. Chester Liddell, of Freebury, 
takes place late in October.” 

Jimmy read it twice to make sure he hadn’t 
been mistaken. Incredulity gave way to astonish¬ 
ment, astonishment became amusement, till at last 
his whoop of mirth brought Cousin Camilla hurry¬ 
ing from the kitchen. He explained as well as 
he could”;—but you’d have to see him and know 
her, to get the true inwardness of it, Cousin Ca¬ 
milla ! ’ ’ 

He sobered quickly, however, when he was once 
more alone with his thoughts of the happy past. 
“Freak” Liddell, High School days, that old 
quarrel with Barbara over Chester. What an im¬ 
becile he, Jimmy, had been about it! Vividly he 
remembered that Saturday morning when he had 
gone to “make up”; he had found Barbara in the 
kitchen, making an apple pie for dinner. . . . The 
slender suppleness of the housewifely figure in its 
big blue apron, someway suggestive of home-of- 
your-own and little-dinners-for-two.. .. Barbara’s 
face delicately flushed—with the heat of the 
kitchen, perhaps; floury hands deftly fitting the 
thin pastry into its tin; the big red apple she had 
tossed him in token of forgiveness. . . . The news¬ 
paper slipped from heedless fingers to sprawl 
untidily at his feet. 

When at last he roused himself from his un¬ 
happy reverie, Jimmy’s face had settled into cer¬ 
tain hard lines that had marked it since he went 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


239 


away. He turned listlessly to the magazine, tore 
off the wrapper—Ah! McKecknie’s for October! 
Now the pages riffled through eager fingers; could 
there be —f Yes, here it was: “A Daughter of 
Ananias, ’ ’ by Barbara Thair! 

Jimmy began to read, stirred by the same mix¬ 
ture of emotions, sad and sweet, which always be¬ 
set him when he came upon the work of Barbara’s 
pen. Why he did it he could hardly have told, but 
for two years and more, ever since the day he had 
stumbled on “Hey, Fellers!” in a chance-flung 
copy of The Amulet, he had bought every Ameri¬ 
can magazine he saw, scanning their pages month 
by month, seeking the printed word that should 
tear afresh his yet unhealed wound. Most of the 
stories he knew by heart through many readings; 
not a few had been familiar to him long before 
they found their way into print. They were for 
the most part stories of boy-and-girl problems and 
struggles and fun, told with an understanding of 
boy-and-girl nature and an appreciative use of 
boy-and-girl idiom which had brought them in¬ 
stant popularity. Barbara wrote of what she 
knew; therein lay her success. 

This story, however, was different, in a more 
serious vein. One of the characters Jimmy recog¬ 
nized at once as Stella Martine; Barbara’s de¬ 
scription of her hands, her way of using them, 
was inimitable. The hero was not so easily identi¬ 
fied, nor the heroine; but as he read on, more and 
more absorbed, suddenly he met it like a blow be¬ 
tween the eyes—the very sentence that once had 
set him aflame with consuming anger; anger at 
Barbara, who could welcome his kisses and then 
tell another girl that she had “used him where 
he’d do the most good”; anger at the girl to whom 



240 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


he had given all his boyish heart, who had said in 
the moonlight “Always and forever, Jimsy, your 
girl!” —God!—and then to Stella Martine, 

‘ 1 There’s never been anything between ns—never 
will be. ” The wording was almost identical. But 
in the story the heroine, jilted, had been goaded 
into repudiation of her lover by the other girl, the 
Stella one; while Barbara —Had she? 

There had been no hint of it in anything Stella 
had said; but naturally—wait, the story! Ah! 
The Stella person in the story hadn’t told that 
part of it, either ! 

And so that was the way it had been! Jimmy 
pondered, and read, and read and thought again, 
until it all grew clear to him at last, all that Bar¬ 
bara had tried to tell him. All, that is, but one 
thing: “Why should Barbara have minded any 
veiled taunts of Stella or anybody else, knowing 
as she did that they had no foundation in fact? It 
would have been more like the Barbara he knew 
to smile serenely, and let time show the world 
whether she had been “jilted” or not. Barbara 
knew! His letter would have made that very 
clear, if she had needed reassurance after what 
his lips had told her! 

His letter! Something—a confused memory, a 
foreboding-—clutched at his heart, sent him 
stumbling across the room to his mother’s desk. 
No, no! That could not be! He wouldn’t look. 
Yet he knew that he should look; he couldn’t help 
it now. With hands that shook so that he could 
scarcely force them to their task, he pulled out 
and overturned the contents of pigeonhole and 
drawer, searching frantically, hoping he would 
find it, hoping he wouldn’t .... God in Heaven! 
He stared at the envelope, at his own familiar 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


241 


handwriting as he drew out the enclosure; a word 
here and there, a phrase, caught his eye: ‘ ‘ Mother 
thinks—“—will be sure that you understand—” 
“Darling, did you know love was like that?” 

Wjith a little broken cry, Jimmy’s head went 
down amid the litter of papers, and he gave him¬ 
self up to the bitterest half hour he had ever 
known. 

It was so that Cousin Camilla found him. Sup¬ 
posing him to be tortured wholly by grief for his 
mother, she stood beside him for a space, her 
arm across his big shoulders. 

“Oh, Jimmy-boy, you shouldn’t have done this 
tonight!” she said, pityingly, when she could 
speak at all. “Tomorrow it might have been 
easier, and perhaps I could have helped—” 

But Jimmy didn’t hear, or else didn’t under¬ 
stand, for he lifted a face that startled and 
shocked poor Miss Winslow; he spoke thickly and 
jerkily: “Cousin Camilla, I have to go out for a 
little while. I don’t know how long I’ll be 
gone—don’t wait up for me—” 

He rose, folding a letter and putting it in his 
pocket with awkward fumbling fingers, and was 
off upstairs before she could find words to dis¬ 
suade him. A few moments later she heard the 
front door close, and in wonderment set about 
ordering the chaos of Cousin Esther’s desk. 



XXI 


St. Michael’s clock was chiming ten as Jimmy 
rang the hell at the once-familiar door. In the old 
days he never rang, a loud war-whoop in the hall 
serving quite adequately to announce his arrival. 
He felt, however, that something rather more 
ceremonious was demanded after an absence, 
more or less clouded, of half a dozen years; so 
he rang the bell, his heart thumping with strange 
excitement, his ears strained to catch the sound 
of a certain light footfall. And then after all it 
was Aunt Cindy’s step he heard, and Aunt Cin¬ 
dy’s voice beginning, “ Who—” as, having slid the 
chain bolt into place, she opened the door its 
allotted six inches. 

“It’s I, Aunt Cindy” He spoke quickly, and as 
quickly stepped within as she released the chain 
and swung back the door. 

Jimmy!” Aunt Cindy gasped in astonishment. 
* ‘ Jimmy! ’ ’ 

He caught her hands and kissed her as of 
yore. “Aunt Cindy,” he demanded, “where’s 
Barbara?” 

“She isn’t here; but come in, come in!” 

Aunt Cindy led the way into the living-room, so 
dearly familiar that the sight of its homely 
comfort hurt intolerably. Jimmy saw that she 
was trembling, and put an arm about her for sup¬ 
port; nor did he remove it when she was seated 
on the broad couch with him beside her. 

“I’m sorry if I frightened you, Aunt Cindy; I 
ought not to have come so late, but I guess I 
didn’t think about the time at all, just so I got 
here! ’ ’ 

“Bather sudden, isn’t it, this—uh—impa¬ 
tience?” she remarked dryly. 

242 



ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


243 


“Aunt Cindy, is it too late?” 

But Aunt Cindy, instead of answering, turned 
swiftly upon him: “Jim, what did you do to my 
little girl ? ’ ’ 

“I didn’t, Aunt Cindy! It was what some 
one else did to me and to my girl; some one I 
trusted—” 

“Not Amory!” exclaimed Aunt Cindy in quick 
defense. 

“No, not Amory; if it had been Amory it 
wouldn’t have been so hard to bear. Amory— 
wanted Barbara, but he played fair, always. Oh, 
Aunt Cindy! It was—it was—my mother! ’ ’ 

Aunt Cindy looked up, startled. Jimmy could 
not speak, and after a long moment of silence he 
slipped from the couch to kneel beside her, hiding 
his shamed face in the motherly shoulder as he so 
often had done when some boyish escapade had 
brought him her just rebuke. Tenderly she put 
an arm about him. For a time neither spoke; then 
Aunt Cindy, with the utmost gentleness: “Never 
mind, Jimmy-boy; whatever it was your mother 
did, you know she didn’t do it to hurt you, but only 
because she thought it was best—for you; because 
she loved you. You know that, Jim!” 

“I know,” came the muffled voice from her 
shoulder; “but I can’t understand—I can’t see 
why she should have done this. She promised— 
oh, Aunt Cindy, must I? It seems as if I couldn’t 
tell it, not even to you, Aunt Cindy! ’ ’ 

“Yes, Jim, I reckon you must!” replied Aunt 
Cindy, gently inexorable. 

Oh, it was hard to begin! Jimmy worried a 
fold of her dress, pinching and creasing it with 
strong, nervous fingers, smoothing it out after¬ 
ward, only to be at it again the next minute. 


244 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


“You see it was this way, Aunt Cindy—” he 
began at last, then stopped. ‘ ‘ Barbara’s told you, 
hasn’t she! Her side of it, I mean?” 

“Not a word! Oh, I knew everything was all 
wrong, but I couldn’t ask. I did try to make it 
easy for her to tell me, hut Barbara is proud; she 
would be reticent about any hurt—of that 
kind—” 

“Yes, she would; she would keep her troubles 
to herself, nurse her own wounds; she always did, 
when we were youngsters together. Well, then, 
the last time I was here, the night before I went 
to Chicago, six years ago—” he faltered, groping 
for words; ‘ i Barbara and I had a talk, and I told 
her—Well, I kissed her, Aunt Cindy; seems kinda 
funny, in a way, hut I never had before, never 
once, not since we were little kids—and I told her 
how I felt about her. I don’t remember whether 
anything was actually said—about getting mar¬ 
ried, you know; but I supposed Barbara knew I 
meant that. I supposed we were engaged; or at 
least I thought it was understood between us that 
we were to be, sometime. I believed it for two 
years—” 

‘ 1 But you didn’t write! ’ ’ 

“When I got home that night and told Mother, 
there was a scene. She said we were much too 
young to think of being engaged; she wanted 
me to give Barbara up, but I wouldn’t. She said 
for me to be tied up to a girl would interfere with 
my work and prospects, or something like that; it 
wasn’t that she didn’t like Barbara, Aunt Cindy,” 
he broke off worriedly. 

“Well, I should hope not!” bristled Aunt 
Cindy. 

“Well, finally Mother put it to me in such a 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


245 


way that I had to give in, partly; but I was to 
write Barbara a letter to explain, and I did, that 
very night. Mother wanted to see it to be sure 
it would do; she said it would be a hard letter to 
write, and I can tell you it was, all right!” Jimmy 
smiled crookedly. “So I left it for her to read 
and send to Barbara—” he was quite unable to 
finish. 

“And she didn’t?” 

4 ‘ I found it tonight, in her desk. ’ ’ 

“And then—?” 

“Oh, you can see how it must have looked to 
Barbara. As if I had kissed her and made love 
to her just to see if I could, and then had gone 
away—” 

“Was that all?” prompted Aunt Cindy. 

“No, I came back to see Barbara the very day 
I was twenty-one, as I promised in my letter; 
but before I had a chance to see her, somebody— 
a girl we both knew—told me something Barbara 
had said. Oh, I know now that Barbara didn’t 
mean it; she said it because she was hurt and 
angry; I can’t blame her now, but I did then, be¬ 
cause I didn’t know .... I guess that’s all, Aunt 
Cindy,” he ended, lamely. 

“Except that you went off in a huff, and never 
gave Barbara a chance to explain, nor to ask you 
to explain!” 

“I didn’t see how there could be any explana¬ 
tion. And I was sore. Why, see here, Aunt Cindy 
—don’t think I’m trying to justify myself; I was 
a cad, if you like; I know I was all the different 
kinds of fool you could name, not to have had it 
out with Barbara then and there; but, Aunt Cindy, 
think! For two years I had thought it was all 
settled between us; I’d been thinking of Barbara 


246 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


as my girl, and dreaming—and it was like a slap 
in the face, what I heard. So I went away. And 
I never knew the truth about it all, till tonight. 
Aunt Cindy,” he implored, “won’t you tell me, 
please, where is Barbara?” 

Aunt Cindy did not reply at once. Instead, with 
a hand beneath Jimmy’s chin, she turned his 
troubled face to the light. “Let me look at you, 
Jim, ’ ’ she commanded. 41 Six years is a long time, 
and I’ve got to make up my mind whether I will 
tell you, or not.” 

Jimmy did as he was bid, his eyes meeting 
hers squarely, earnestly, though he flushed red 
to the tips of his ears. 

Shrewd, loving Aunt Cindy saw much in the up¬ 
turned face she scanned so narrowly. It was a 
man’s face now, instead of the smooth boyish one 
she remembered. Behind his present suffering 
she saw lines of disillusionment and regret; she 
read a story of temptation fought and overcome; 
she saw that he had come back clean, not with the 
untouched innocence of boyhood, but with the 
more significant virtue of the man who has tasted 
evil and voluntarily put aside the cup, choosing 
rather decency for its own sake. There was new 
strength in the line of the jaw, the mobile lips 
were set more firmly one upon the other; but 
Jimmy’s eyes were the same clear, frank, boyish 
ones that had always made him loved and trusted 
wherever he went. 

Still Aunt Cindy had one more test. “Kept 
pretty straight, have you, Jim?” She asked the 
question almost casually. 

Jimmy met her searching look unflinchingly. 
“I’m straight now, Aunt Cindy,’’ he answered. 

Aunt Cindy smiled contentedly as she smoothed 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


247 


the blond head. “I do think,” she opined with 
seeming irrelevance, “that there’s a train for 
Bamegat at seven-something in the morning; or, 
let me see—is it eight-something, I wonder?” 


XXII 


Miss Thair had not yet arrived, the clerk at 
the Inlet House informed Jimmy. She had en¬ 
gaged a room by wire from New York, but might 
not be down before tomorrow. Certainly, plenty 
of rooms; a little late in the season, you know: 

‘ ‘Front!” 

Jimmy followed the boy, wondering how he 
could fill the hours till Barbara's coming; wonder¬ 
ing what he should say to her when he did see her, 
and what she would say to him. He spent the 
morning roaming aimlessly about the hotel; 
smoked cigarettes innumerable; wrote a note to 
Cousin Camilla, assuring her of his safe arrival, 
though the journey down had consumed but a 
trifle more than an hour, and Cousin Camilla, so 
far as he knew, hadn't lost any sleep through 
worry over him when he was half a world away! 

He got a timetable, looked up the trains by 
which Barbara could possibly arrive, and met 
them all; ate a disgracefully hearty lunch, every¬ 
thing considered; and having made another trip 
to the station and fidgeted about the lobby until 
seven old ladies and four old gentlemen fled to 
regions more tranquil, he suddenly recalled that 
there was an excellent ocean somewhere about, 
highly recommended for swimming and the like. 

Buffeting the breakers proved exhilarating; he 
plunged into the rolling water beyond with keen 
enjoyment. Later, seeking a secluded spot, he 
stretched his splendid young body upon the sand 
in the warm September sunshine, and straightway 

248 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 249 

began paying Dame Nature’s score for the sleep¬ 
less night just past. 

To Barbara, stepping from the hotel “bus,” it 
seemed that she could hardly wait to get into the 
cool water. The journey down from New York 
had been intolerably hot and dusty, in spite of the 
fog and rain of the day before; a trying day it 
had been for Barbara and Uncle Ben, going about 
in the murky heat from bank to office and from 
office to store, attending to a dozen little matters 
for the whole family. And this morning, having 
bade Uncle Ben goodbye at the subway as he 
started for the ferry on his way home, she had 
spent a long hour with Mr. Craven, of McKech- 
nie’s, discussing with him such of her published 
stories as were to be included in a little volume 
soon to be issued. Two or three, hitherto unpub¬ 
lished, awaited revision, and Barbara’s coming 
down to this not too fashionable old hotel was 
primarily to work at this task. 

Often before it had proved a haven of quiet and 
uninterruption for the hatching of a plot, or for a 
period of rest and recuperation following some 
desperate orgy of work; for when genius burned 
Barbara joyously lit her candle at both ends, 
working with an intensity that left her exhausted 
mentally, and half dead for sleep. Today—oh, 
but she was tired today! Just tired through and 
through, body and mind and heart. And discour¬ 
aged. What did it all amount to, after all? Scrib¬ 
bling her youth away, the golden days that pass 
but once—and Barbara was nearly twenty-four! 

This was one of the times when the thought of 
Amory and his devotion was a powerful tempta¬ 
tion to the woman’s heart of her; one of the times 
when she would cheerfully have bartered all that 



250 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


the years had brought of fame and of sheckels, 
even her hard-won serenity, for a single hour of 
the old happy companionship with Jimmy. She 
knew, of course, that the mood would pass, and 
she would be up and at her appointed task with all 
her accustomed satisfaction in work well done, 
rejoicing as before that hers was the power to 
lighten with a smile the cares that infest hu¬ 
manity’s day. For a story from the pen of Bar¬ 
bara Thair was no lugubrious affair of plots and 
counterplots, of problems and evil passions and 
heartaches. Lightsome, folksy tales they were, 
clever and merry and whimsical; and the reader’s 
smile of appreciation perforce expanded to a grin 
or a giggle, a chuckle or a shout, according to sex 
and temperament. 

But these first few days Barbara meant to rest, 
to “loaf and invite her soul,” to the end that she 
might come to her work with fresh courage and 
vigor. It was so good to be here! Barbara loved 
the sea; the tang of salt in the air was to her 
more delightful than any perfume of flower or 
forest or field. In later years, when the shores 
of Lake Michigan came to be her vacation play¬ 
ground, she found them most satisfactory as to 
waves and sand and scenery; but the water simply 
smelled like water, like sunshine and distant pines, 
and left her strangely uncontent. 

Now she drew deep breaths of the grateful 
saltness, running lightly down the beach in the 
bathing suit hastily snatched from her luggage, 
making straight for the smooth swells beyond the 
line of breakers. She was too tired for very ener¬ 
getic swimming, but paddled contentedly about, 
revelling in the delicious coolness with a sense of 
sheer physical comfort and well-being. 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


251 


Afterward she played handball with some small 
boys until she was quite dry, and more than 
willing to rest and read the magazine she had hid¬ 
den, with her steamer rug, in a safe place she knew 
of old. And there, in the lee of a group of rocks 
which once had formed part of an old breakwater, 
she settled herself comfortably for a half hour of 
delight in the company of one 0. Henry, the joy of 
her life and her everlasting despair. 

But scarcely had she become thoroughly ab¬ 
sorbed in the adventurous mishaps of Mr. Jeffer¬ 
son Peters, when she was startled by a peculiar 
sound from beyond the adjacent rocks. The sound 
was such as might be uttered by a human being of 
the masculine persuasion, in the event of a painful 
degree of pressure being applied to, say, a great 
toe. “Oh! Ow! Ouch!” ejaculated the hidden 
voice, immediately adding a forceful and unmis¬ 
takable ‘ 1 Damn! ’ ’ 

Barbara raised her head to listen in wondering 
amusement. There was a scramble, a grunt of re¬ 
lief, and again the voice, the sound of which 
brought her bolt upright, though all it said was, 
“Why, you little son-of-a-sea-cook, you!” 

Then from behind the screening rocks uprose a 
tall young Viking in a bathing suit, a half grown 
crab held firmly and expertly in his right hand. 
One second later the adolescent crustacean was 
sailing through space in the general direction of 
Liverpool, and the Viking turned—and stopped—- 
and stared. A young woman was sitting there in 
the sand, looking in her short bathing skirt ab¬ 
surdly like a little girl he used to know. Except 
that she had been tinted like the wild rose, while 
this one was strangely white, as white as the 
sand at her feet. An eternity or so they stared. 


252 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Then Barbara bowed her head to shut out the 
sight of him passing by, with no word or sign of 
recognition. Oh, if only he would go, go quickly! 

Thus it was that she did not see him coming 
swiftly toward her, clearing the intervening rocks 
like a boy playing at leapfrog; didn’t see the out¬ 
stretched arms until they gathered her in, rug, 
magazine and all. . . . 

The sun was all of an hour nearer the western 
treetops before they could speak sanely or even 
coherently. Jimmy’s lips had sought hers again 
and again, as a thirsty traveler drinks at a way- 
side spring. His conversation, while hardly to 
be called brilliant, was eminently satisfactory to 
Barbara Ann, consisting for the most part of 
repetitions of her name, with variations, whis¬ 
pered close against her cheek, now no longer 
strangely white, but tinted like the wild rose. 
They clung together, blissfully oblivious of pos¬ 
sible onlookers, each reading unutterable things 
in the eyes of the other; swept by waves of feeling 
that blotted out sand and sea and sky, leaving only 
these two, together, in all the universe. 

When at last consistent speech was possible, 
Jimmy found words to tell her about the letter; 
and then Barbara tried to make him understand 
just what she had said to Stella, and why, but he 
stopped her speech with kisses. 

“Oh, my Barbara girl!” he grieved; “to think 
of all the cruel, wasted years, the heartaches—” 

“But it’s all right now, Jimsy; everything is 
all right now!” she comforted. 

“And you can forgive us both, my mother and 
me?” 

“Jim, dear,” Barbara spoke softly, as in the 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


253 


presence of the dead, and her words paraphrased 
Aunt Cindy’s, “Your mother—it was for you she 
did it, for your best happiness as she saw it; be¬ 
cause she loved her boy. . . . She was so dear and 
sweet to me, Jimsy, as though she were sorry and 
wanted to make amends. You mustn’t grieve 
about it; that's all right, too.” 

So were Jimmy’s wounds healed, and Barbara’s 
with them, for Jimmy declared that after all he 
rather admired her “spunk” in repudiating a 
lover as generally reprehensible as he must have 
seemed to her. “But, sweetheart, how could you 
believe it of me? Didn’t you know me better, 
after all our years together?” 

4 ‘ I don’t know, Jim; I hardly understand it my¬ 
self, in the light of—today! For that matter, 
didn’t you know me better? How could you think 
I’d make a speech like that, so hateful—and oh, 
so utterly untrue, Jimmy!—if something hadn’t 
happened to drive me plum crazy ? ’ ’ 

“I guess I didn’t think about it at all,” Jimmy 
replied, soberly. When I heard it I simply ‘saw 
red,’ I suppose, just as you must have done wheil 
you said it. Ah, well! Who cares now, anyway?” 

It seemed Barbara didn’t, nor Jimmy either; 
and since nobody else mattered in the least, they 
settled it most amicably between them in another 
interval of beatific detachment from earth and the 
things thereof. 

‘ ‘ Going in again ? ’ ’ 

Barbara considered. “Race you to the float!” 

They were off like two children, charging down 
the sandy beach, plunging through the surf, strik¬ 
ing out strongly for the goal. Barbara was no 
mean antagonist, but Jimmy’s superior strength 
soon out-distanced her, and he sat at ease on 


254 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


the edge of the platform when she came up, gasp¬ 
ing, sputtering, laughing, to perch beside him. He 
welcomed her as though the width of the Atlantic 
had separated them instead of a paltry dozen 
yards; it was well, perhaps, that they had the float 
and its environs quite to themselves at the mo¬ 
ment ! 

Together they slipped from the raft and swam 
shoreward side by side. “Bet I can beat you 
dressing, too!” he boasted, pulling her from be¬ 
neath a huge comber that threatened to annihilate 
them both. 

Barbara disdained the proffered wager, laugh¬ 
ing gayly back at him over her shoulder as they 
ran up the beach. Jimmy could almost have 
sworn that she even “made a snoot” as of old! 

However, his jubilant haste to get himself into 
the proper dinner-time habilaments of civilized 
man availed him little. Fully thirty minutes had 
he cooled his heels, though not his ardor, ere she 
came to him in the lobby, glowing, radiant, a new 
and enchanting Barbara ; with all the dear sweet¬ 
ness of the old, and something more, intangible 
yet unmistakable—the mingling of charm and its 
sterner brother, character, which suffering and 
achievement had wrought from the plastic ma¬ 
terial of the girl’s gentle nature. 

“You kept me waiting purposely, you know you 
did !—you darling!” he added in a whisper. 
“Wasn’t six years enough, that you must pile on 
another eternity like this last half hour ? ’ ’ 

Barbara smiled inscrutably, but her eyes were 
all shy tenderness and half-unbelieving joy. 

They dined, though what they ate or whether 
they ate, they knew no more than you or I. After¬ 
ward they walked and talked long beneath the 


ANANIAS ’ DAUGHTER 


255 


stars; there was so much to tell of the past, so 
much to plan for the future. Jim was all for an 
immediate marriage, but Barbara demurred; she 
didn’t want to miss the fun of being engaged. 
“ Just for a little while, Jimsy!” she begged. 

“It will have to be a very little while, then, 
sweetheart,” Jimmy at last agreed. If I want 
that job with Harper, and maybe some day my 
name in gilt letters on the door, I’ll have to be in 
Chicago within a month at the latest. They gave 
me until the first to wire acceptance, and I ought 
to be there by the fifteenth. And this time I’m not 
going without my girl, you can just bet your sweet 
life on that!” 

There was the question of Barbara’s writing. 
She must go on with it, Jimmy declared. Gee, it 
wasn’t every fellow could have a little celebrity in 
his home! When was she going to do her novel ? 

To which Barbara replied, “When I’m forty, 
Jimsy, not before!” 

“You see, Jim,” she explained, seriously, “I 
know as well as anyone that what I’ve written 
isn’t great. It’s amusing, and to a degree con¬ 
vincing, because I’ve written of the things I know, 
out of my own experience; and I’m going to con¬ 
tinue writing such just as long as people like ’em 
and the publishers will buy ’em. But a novel—I’m 
going to live my novel first, with you, Jimsy; and 
then we’ll see!” 

Once the strains of a two-step from the hotel 
ballroom sent them rollicking over the sand, hard- 
packed by the receding tide, while Jimmy hummed 
the air with the orchestra. Barbara stopped 
short, struck by a sudden staggering thought. 
“Jim, what about your music? You haven’t let it 
drop entirely, have you?” 


256 


ANANIAS* DAUGHTER 


“ ’Fraid so!** was the half-rueful reply. “Oh, 
well, cheer up!” he concluded comfortably; “it 
didn’t make so much of a splash at that! * * 

Then with a grin, “Maybe when we get to Chi¬ 
cago, and they find out at Saint Whosoever’s what 
a puffickly wondafil voice I’ve got, and what a 
close shave grand opera had from having me burst 
into it—well, maybe they’ll let me sing in the 
choir now and then, just enough to buy shoes for 
the baby!... What’s that? Say it again, Honey! 
. . . I sure do, dear—half a dozen of ’em!” 


XXIII 


They went home next day, for of course Aunt 
Cindy must know at once, and Uncle Ben. There 
were matters of importance, too, requiring their 
presence in town without delay; the engagement 
ring, for one thing, and Jimmy’s affairs to be ar¬ 
ranged, and plans for the wedding—a month isn’t 
a very long time in which to prepare wedding 
gown and trousseau, however unpretentious. 
Barbara was childish enough, she said, to want 
a real wedding, with a white dress and a veil and 
orange blossoms, and bridesmaids, and the organ 
playing the bridal chorus from “The Rose 
Maiden” very softly, and all the people she loved 
there to see her married. 

“But simple; oh, very simple!” she protested, 
at Jimmy’s expression of panic. And she meant 
to ask Stella Martine to be one of her bridesmaids. 

“For heaven’s sake, whyV* demanded Jimmy. 

“Well, because!” Barbara answered; and 
further elucidated, “and then, besides!” 

In spite of the promised simplicity, Jimmy be¬ 
came more and more nervous as the day drew 
near. His years abroad had precluded his offici¬ 
ating as “best man” or otherwise, at the weddings 
of his friends, as would inevitably have been his 
lot had he been at home. In fact he had attended 
very few weddings in all his life, and his ignorance 
of the machinery of the ceremony was monu¬ 
mental. As to the fee, for instance: Did Uncle 
Ben think twenty dollars, or perhaps twenty-five, 

257 


258 


ANANIAS* DAUGHTER 


a sufficient sum? Well, of course lie didn’t mean 
just that; thousands wouldn’t be enough, but what 
was customary? 

Uncle Ben advised him to curb his generosity 
at twenty dollars, or even ten; hadn’t Jimmy 
heard about Mr. Seabrooke’s weak heart? 

Then Jimmy wanted to know whether he should 
give the money to Mr. Seabrooke before or after 
the ceremony, and must he hand it to him in per¬ 
son or was that part of Amory’s job? And was it 
etiquette to put it in an envelope, or would Mr. 
Seabrooke—er—take it rawf 

Uncle Ben’s roar of laughter brought a re¬ 
sponsive grin to Jim’s sober face; the older man 
offering as his opinion, when he could get his 
breath, that Mr. Seabrooke or any other clergy¬ 
man of his acquaintance would be apt to “take it’* 
in any form in which it might be offered. ‘ i Give it 
to him in pennies if you like, Jim! ” he chuckled. 

They were married on Jim’s birthday, “to take 
the curse off,” Jimmy explained somewhat ambigu¬ 
ously. Stella Martine, in her bridesmaid’s gown 
of softest rose, looking a trifle pale in the shadow 
of her wide-brimmed hat, thought the wedding a 
very plain affair indeed, and not to be compared 
to the general sumptuousness planned for her own 
nuptials, now a fortnight distant. Which was ex¬ 
actly as Barbara wished it. 

Indeed, practically everything about her wed¬ 
ding suited Barbara Ann to a dot. The pretty 
little church was trimmed as for any simple serv¬ 
ice, with Barbara’s favorite pink roses on altar 
and pulpit rail. Barbara’s gown and veil were 
simplicity itself, so that to Jimmy she might seem 
no “apparition strange and fair,” but just “his 
girl,” the dear playmate of all his years. Ethel 




ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


259 


Harbie, as maid of honor, was more like an apple- 
blossom than ever, her blonde beauty gleaming 
pearl-like beside Amory’s dark faultlessness. 
The other bridesmaids were replicas of Stella 
Martine, barring the pallor and the touch of half- 
envious criticism; to them it was a day of days, a 
joyous interlude, a foretaste of one hoped-for day 
in the life of each. 

And there was dear Uncle Ben to give the bride 
away; there were Aunt Cindy and Cousin Camilla 
crying comfortably together in a front pew, and 
Father Christian looking very happy in a rear 
one; and Jimmy saying “I, James, take thee, Bar¬ 
bara, ” in a very shaky voice, though his eyes were 
as clear and steady and worshipping as ever. 

No one saw Aunt Annameel at first, though 
Barbara had gone twice to Hepzibah House to in¬ 
sist on her presence, without fail. Barbara 
couldn’t bear that any of her own people should 
feel left out, unwanted, on this day, and Aunt 
Cindy had spoken to the ushers, that Aunt Anna¬ 
meel might be seated with “the bride’s family.” 
Still she had not appeared; oh, dear, Barbara 
would be so disappointed— 

However, Aunt Annameel was there! She had 
arrived very early, accompanied by Miss Mattie 
and Miss Sarah; had found a seat far to one side; 
and with a Hepzibah on either hand, awaited the 
beginning of such heathenish rites as might con¬ 
stitute a marriage among the Pharisees. 

She was surprised, almost disappointed, at the 
brevity and simplicity of the service, the entire 
absence of the circus tricks she had expected to 
witness. There was, to be sure, an element of 
the cut-and-dried, but that was to be expected in a 
church that read its prayers—imagine! And that, 


260 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


Aunt Annameel herself was able to mitigate to 
some extent, and to introduce a spontaniety other¬ 
wise lacking. 

She chose that hushed moment between the 
last Amen and the first notes of the wedding 
march, and in a voice that carried clearly to the 
farthest corners of the church, cried out “Praise 
the Lord!” in the best Hepzibah manner. Miss 
Mattie and Miss Sarah were not far behind, one 
contributing a vigorous “Amen!” and the other a 
resounding ‘ i Glory! Halleluia! ’ ’—which last, how¬ 
ever, was partially lost in a great crash of chords 
from the organ. Mr. Nichols, though fairly 
stunned by the unseemly occurrence, rose to the 
occasion with the loudest stops at his command; 
and never before had bridal party swept down the 
aisle of St. Barnabas ’ with such spirited abandon. 
Further solemnity was out of the question. 
Bridesmaids and ushers with difficulty restrained 
their mirth; Barbara and Jimmy dared not raise 
their eyes; guests craned for a glimpse of Aunt 
Annameel and her singular friends, still nodding 
their satisfaction. It became the standing joke 
of Barbara’s married life; for Jimmy never 
ceased to remind her, on occasion, of her family’s 
publicly-expressed relief at getting her married 
off at last! 

And what a jolly breakfast it was, when at last 
the pent-up hilarity could have its way! How 
wonderful Grandma Ferriss looked, all in black 
lace, at the head of the table, telling a story of her 
own wedding day as Barbara cut the bride-cake! 
How they all laughed at the vision conjured up by 
the old lady, of herself as a bride of seventy years 
ago, marching up the aisle on the arm of Great¬ 
grandfather Hanchell, a pair of red woollen bed- 


ANANIAS’ DAUGHTER 


261 


room slippers peeping from beneath the stiff satin 
skirt of her bridal gown, while the buckled ones of 
gleaming satin, left to be donned at the last 
minute because of their torturing snugness, sat in 
lonely grandeur beside her dressing glass at 
home! 

How their laughter grew to shrieks of glee when 
Ethel Harbie bit upon something hard in her piece 
of cake, and triumphantly held up to view the 
coveted band of gold “for the next bride!” How 
Amory went suddenly white when she handed it to 
him with an offhand request to keep it for her, 
please; she hadn’t any pocket, and it was bad 
luck to put it on her finger— yet! 

And then Barbara, half way up the stairs, was 
tossing her bouquet toward a dozen upraised 
hands. Ethel and Stella and Bessie Paige each 
“almost got it,” but it slipped from their grasp 
and fell to the floor, whence it was snatched and 
borne exultantly away by Thankful Cordelia 
Jennie May Smith amid much merriment. 

And the crowd scurrying off to the station, well 
primed with rice and confetti and disreputable 
footwear, while Barbara and Jim were dressing; 
and Amory, with Ethel beside him, bringing 
around his big, new, shining, dark-red automobile, 
kept a profound secret until that moment, to whirl 
them to the junction two stations away; their non- 
appearance at train time being the first intimation 
of fiasco to the excited watchers at the home 
“depot.” 

And here was the train at last, and the two 
young men were clasping hands while the girls 
kissed affectionately. The escaping bride and 
groom sent messages of derision to the disap¬ 
pointed crowd; and at the very last, as the train 


262 


ANANIAS * DAUGHTER 


rolled out of the station, Jimmy called gleefully 
from the steps, “Hey, Amory! You and Ethel 
better come to Chicago on your honeymoon !’ 1 

Hands and hats and handkerchiefs were waved, 
till there was nothing left to wave at except the 
landscape. Then Amory, white and very serious, 
turned to Ethel, whose eyes were like twin stars. 
“Well, how about it, Eth?” he asked. 

So were the gates of all the Yesterdays fast- 
closed behind these four, and they stood at last 
within the Garden of Tomorrow. 


THE END 





























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